66 Weeks of Aftermath
by Croik
Summary: Part of my Bruce/Peter crossover series, taking place after Indestructible. A collection of scenes following up on the phase 2 movies and their aftermaths.
1. Chapter 1

I came out of TWS really wanting to write B/P fic in the aftermath of the SHIELD collapse, but I didn't want to just timeskip through the other Phase 2 movies, so this fic is my compromise. It's not a longfic so much as it is a transition piece, with each chapter made up of a few scenes taking place in the aftermath of the major events between Avengers and TWS. I did fudge a few small things to get my series to fit with the canon as smoothly as possible, but overall I'm trying to stay canon compliant up until Age of Ultron changes everything. TASM2, on the other hand, I'm not sticking with except to cannibalize some of its characters and themes. This fic is rated Teen for violence and language. Takes place after "My Boyfriend is Indestructible."

Many thanks to my sister TK, and my betas Birdy and Jenetica for helping me with this fic! Comments and concrit are welcome and appreciated :)

* * *

**66 Weeks of Aftermath  
**Chapter 1: The Mandarin

* * *

Natasha didn't say anything for almost the entire three hour flight. She would have had to have raised her voice over the noise of the helicopter to be heard, which wouldn't have been worth the effort until she knew exactly what she intended to say. More importantly, timing was everything. Steve was practically vibrating next to her; she wasn't about to rile him up inside a tin can with too much time left still on the clock.

They were less than fifteen minutes from their destination when she turned to Steve and said, "Are you gonna be able to keep it together down there?"

Steve bristled. He didn't have many buttons worth pressing, but those he did were so easy. "I don't know what you mean," he replied.

"Stark's had a hard time of it. House blown up, president kidnapped-"

"He should have thought of that sooner," said Steve matter-of-factly. To his credit, he didn't sound as bitter as he could have been, but Natasha wasn't convinced his calm veneer would hold up once he and Tony were face to face. "Whoever the Mandarin ended up being, Stark called him down on his head himself. And he knows it."

Natasha tilted her head thoughtfully. "I'm not sure it's that simple."

Steve glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He was probably onto her already. "It's not like you to defend Stark."

"I'm not," she said. "I just want to know that you won't-"

"This isn't about me," said Steve, in his _this conversation is over_ tone. Natasha settled again and let the matter drop, satisfied.

They landed at the The Cube a few minutes later and disembarked almost directly into Agent Sitwell's handshake. "Captain," he greeted them briskly. "Agent Romanoff. Thank you for coming, but the situation is actually-"

"Excuse us, Agent Sitwell," said Steve. He didn't break stride as he returned Sitwell's handshake as tightly and briefly as possible and then moved on, toward the roof access door. Natasha followed close behind. She liked letting Steve take the lead when he was in a mood; everything proceeded so much more efficiently. Sitwell had to hurry to catch up, and without giving them any grief about their unexpected visit he led them directly to "special" quarantine.

The chamber wasn't unlike a bomb disposal room. The walls were reinforced steel alloy and the viewing window several layers of blast-proof glass. Natasha spared only a glance at the patient inside. For the moment she wasn't their focus.

Tony was standing at the window. His T-shirt and pants were singed and tattered, and bruises were in the process of darkening around his jaw and temple. His wrists were raw with the familiar bites restraints, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavy with fatigue. Natasha stood by her preliminary assessment: he had had a hard time of it.

Steve saw it, too, and his shoulders drooped minutely. "Stark."

Tony went tight like a rat in a trap. "Rogers."

Steve looked through the window, and Natasha could see him talking himself down. "How is she?" he asked.

"She's going to be all right," said Tony, but he was still stiff. "The Extremis formula wasn't as complicated as Hansen made it out to be. It was a lot easier to reverse than to stabilize." He nodded to himself. "She'll be fine."

Steve nodded as well, but his sympathy was able to hold his righteous anger at bay for only so long, and he was already tensing up again. "I'm glad. It sounds like you had a pretty close call."

Tony snorted. He could always be counted on to make things worse. "All right, here we go."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Rogers, we both know you're here to bust my balls," said Tony, turning away from the window. "So let's just get it over with, all right? So I can get back to worrying about more important things."

_Oh, Tony_, thought Natasha, taking a step back as Steve took a step forward. _You just can't help yourself, can you?_

"This isn't about me giving you a hard time," said Steve. "I want to know what happened." He might have stopped there, except for Tony rolling his eyes. "And why you handled it the way you did."

"And here I thought the whole point of being debriefed half a dozen times was so that there'd be a convenient report for others to read," Tony muttered. "Saving me from having to repeat myself over and over."

"I'm not talking about-"

"You know what happened." Tony shoved his hands in his pockets as he stared Steve down. "And if you're thinking I screwed up, fine, I screwed up. Is that what you stormed in here to say? I _know_, all right, I've got it. So come on. What else have you got?"

Tony was a damn fine button-pusher himself; Steve had no choice but to pause and reevaluate his approach. "I want to know _why_, Stark," he said at last.

"Why what?"

"Are we really going to do it like this?" Steve took another step forward. "You know what I'm asking."

"Fury said you were in Pakistan." It rolled off Tony's tongue so easily anyone could have seen that he'd been practicing.

"Yes, and then we were in Malibu. If you'd told us where you were going-"

"I was _unconscious_ when I left Malibu," Tony interrupted. "And from then on I was kind of in a time sensitive situation."

"It's a thirteen hour drive from Rose Hill to Miami," said Natasha. "We could have easily met you there in a Quinjet."

Tony gave her a tired look, but then he drew his focus back to Steve. "This wasn't about timing," Steve was saying. "Or about where anyone was. You were in way over your head and you should have contacted us."

"I had Rhodey with me."

"I read Colonel Rhodes' debrief, too, so don't try to spin what happened."

Tony squirmed. He looked like he had a lot to say and then changed course at the last second. "What happened is I _did _call it in, to the VP. Rhodey and I had no way of knowing he was in on it."

"Are you going to answer my question or not?" said Steve with mounting irritation. "Because I really thought we were past this all being about you."

"Yeah," said Tony, rolling his eyes again, "because apparently now it's all about _you_."

That was it. Natasha could almost see Tony reach out and poke Steve right in his biggest button. She took a discreet step to the side to watch the inevitable reaction play out.

"All right," said Steve through tight jaws. "All right, I get it." He took a step back. "Tell Pepper I'm glad she's okay."

Tony remained perfectly still. "So we're done?"

"Yeah. We're done."

Steve turned on his heel and left. Where he intended to go Natasha had no idea, but she was fairly confident he wasn't angry enough hop in the helicopter and abandon her there, so once the door was closed behind him she took up his space next to Tony.

"You must have known it was going to go that well," said Tony.

"I was counting on it." Natasha folded her arms and leaned against the window, watching him closely. "Because now you're keyed up and feeling defensive, and you're going to want to tell me everything you wish you'd said to him."

Tony made a face. "This whole manipulation thing you do isn't as effective when you outright tell a person you're doing it."

Natasha returned his glare with calm attention. "Isn't it?"

Tony hemmed on it a while longer, but when he looked back into the chamber, where Pepper was asleep under the watchful eyes of a dozen cameras and medical sensors, he sighed. "The truth is, I almost lost her."

Natasha looked for herself and softened with sympathy. "We've come close before," Tony continued, "but this time..." He shook his head. "She's gonna be fine, of course. But even after they picked us up, I couldn't stop thinking...Rogers would have caught her. He's fast, and he's got those..." He gestured helplessly. "Those freakish super-reflexes and long arms. Or Parker-he's got his webs. Bruce could have jumped right in after her." He looked to Natasha. "I don't know what you would have done-you've probably got a gadget for that or something."

"If it were me," said Natasha coolly, "she wouldn't have been in that position in the first place."

Tony grimaced and rubbed his eyes. "You know, I'm only telling you this because I figured you wouldn't be judgey about it."

"I'm not judging. I know how hard it is to admit to Rogers he's always right."

"He is not _always_ right," Tony said pointedly.

Natasha smirked. "That's what makes it so hard. But he is right, this time." She tapped on the window with her knuckle. "Like you said, it was close. It didn't have to be that way. So why go it alone, Stark? I know you better than to think it was just pride."

"I had Rhodey with me," Tony reminded her, but when Natasha continued to stare at him, unblinking, he finally relented. "Killian was _my_ problem. I didn't want anyone else involved."

"You're not responsible for global terrorists," said Natasha, though not necessarily in a reassuring way. "Or industry peers imitating global terrorists."

"This was business, but it was also personal, and it was about _me_. I _made_ him. Again." He waved in the direction Steve had gone. "Like hell I was going to let him be there when that part came out. He's always looking to blame me for something."

Natasha sighed with amusement. "You really don't understand him at all, do you?"

Tony started to answer and then shook his head. "Well, when you say it like that..."

Natasha moved closer. "We saw what's left of your house in Malibu. He was afraid for you, Stark. In his mind you're one of his. Whatever you felt when you first realized you couldn't handle this alone was what he felt when he realized you didn't want his help."

Tony pulled a face. "That bad, huh?"

"Tell me about the armors," said Natasha.

Tony let out a short bark of laughter. "There you go again with the subtlety."

"Subtlety isn't part of my training."

Tony shook his head again, but she liked to think she knew him pretty well, and was proved right when he relented. "You can tell Fury he doesn't have to worry about me and my armors," he said. "They were all destroyed anyway." After one last moment of hesitation he finally gave up what Natasha had been waiting for. "You know, with Hammer, everyone let me off the hook for that last bit because I didn't have the armor. I'm not like the rest of you-I can't do much of anything without it." He swallowed. "Even when I do have it, it doesn't always feel like enough."

"So you thought that with an army of them, you'd be set," Natasha guessed.

"Something like that."

"But it didn't work out that way." She tilted her head to the side. "So what now?"

"I'm not sure yet." Tony faced the window. "But you can tell Rogers I learned my lesson, if you want. No more going it alone."

"Tell him yourself," said Natasha. "I'm not your secretary anymore."

Tony snorted, but he did smile as Natasha moved away. "I'll give your regards to Pepper," he said.

"Thanks."

Natasha slipped out. Sitwell was still in the hall, waiting, but there was no sign of Steve. It presented her with an opportunity. "Sitwell," she said, and he straightened up. For a moment she thought he was about to snap to military attention. "Where's my plus one?"

Sitwell relaxed a bit. "He didn't quite say, but he headed that way," he said, pointing down the hall.

"Help me find him, will you?"

Natasha started down the hall; Sitwell had no choice but to follow. He seemed to have figured out that his interrogation had begun, so she didn't keep him waiting. "Why didn't we have boots on the ground in Malibu after the first missile fired?"

"We did," Sitwell answered quickly. "Two dozen agents. The director said you and Rogers-"

"I'm talking about extraction, not clean-up," Natasha clarified. "Why wasn't Ms. Potts secured at the scene? My orders specified that she would be wrapped and waiting for me."

"I know, and it's kind of a funny story, but I'm afraid that if I tell you-"

"With a bow on, Sitwell."

Sitwell cleared his throat. "In debrief Potts told me that Agent Quincell provided her with a vehicle and designated a rendezvous point for her and Ms. Hanson. She thought you would be meeting her there."

"And Qunicell?" Natasha asked. She wasn't familiar with the name; there were only a handful of agents she regularly worked with.

"Said he got the order from Agent Umeda. Umeda says she gave that order before hearing you were on en route, and then issued revised orders after. She claims Quincell confirmed but _he_ claims he never got them."

Natasha frowned, already planning how she would present the troubling news to Fury. "So either one or both of them are traitors, or they're just incompetent."

"They're with Hand, now," Sitwell said by way of consolation.

It helped, a little. "What about Stark? Don't even try to tell me ops couldn't track the armor out of Malibu." When Sitwell could only adjust his glasses and wince, Natasha rolled her eyes. "And I suppose the AIM modifications to the Iron Patriot rendered it untraceable, too." She stopped walking to face Sitwell properly. "What the hell happened here, Sitwell?"

Sitwell shook his head, at just as much of a loss as her. "I know, I know. I'm on it." He hesitated to say more, but when Natasha continued to stare at him, he gave it up. "But maybe we would have been on top of things if Stark had been more of a team player."

Natasha folded her arms. "Excuses," she said. "That's really what you're going with."

"Captain Rogers isn't always right," said Sitwell with a shrug. "But he is right, this time." Natasha stared back at him long enough to make him regret trying to be smart with her. "But you're right, too, of course; excuses are for amateurs," he amended. "We'll figure out where the balls were dropped and pick them back up."

"Good." Natasha continued on. "Keep me updated." Sitwell didn't follow.

Locating Steve wasn't difficult, since there were staff members around willing to gesture in the direction he had gone. He had found the administration offices and was hearing a full report of Pepper's condition from Dr. Wilcox. Natasha hung back, listening in, and was relieved when the doctor's assessment matched Tony's: Pepper wasn't in danger any longer and would be fine.

Once they were finished Natasha caught Steve's eye, and she wasn't surprised to see in him the same tired look Tony had fixed on her earlier. Without a word or signal she found them a private-ish hallway near the exit. "So," she said. "About keeping it together."

Steve sighed. "That's not how I wanted that to go," he admitted.

"But was it what you expected?"

"Maybe." He shook his head. "I just don't understand him."

"Well," said Natasha. "At least you can admit it."

Steve frowned at her. "I'm not sure I understand you, either. Whose side are you on?"

"I'm on the side of getting things done," Natasha said honestly. "The Mandarin has been a problem for us, and now it's handled. It could have been handled _better_, certainly, and we've got a lot of work ahead of us. But the President is all right, Pepper and Col. Rhodes are all right...so I can't complain too much about his end of things."

Steve continued to stare at her until it began to feel heavy; she shrugged. "I know how you feel," she said, "but it's no use asking Stark to not be Stark. We should be glad things turned out all right and move on."

"That's not good enough," said Steve. "There was so much at risk and he went off on his own, for what? So he could prove something to us and his ego? That's not how we do things."

"He's not a soldier, Rogers. You can't expect him to act like one."

Steve sighed with exasperation, but he stopped himself. Natasha wondered if there was something in her expression holding him back. "Then I guess I'm going to have to reevaluate my expectations."

Natasha lifted an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

Steve took a moment before speaking. "I know that in the end, he means well," he said. "If he says he'll do something I know he will, but I don't trust him. Do you? Not his intentions, but his choices."

Natasha met his gaze, trying to decide which answer Steve was waiting for. It didn't particularly matter to her either way and sometimes it was easier giving Steve what he wanted. For once, he didn't make it easy on her. "He's gotten results," she said diplomatically. "But I can't always predict what he'll do. It's not easy to trust someone like that. Then again, that can be said about a lot of us."

"What do you mean?"

"Like you said, Stark means well but he's a loose cannon," said Natasha. "Thor is a prince on another world we have no way to contact. Banner's made progress with Hulk but even when in control he's more of a rainy day kind of asset. And I know you're fond of Parker, but a teenager isn't really my idea of dependable."

"And you and Barton?" asked Steve, though he didn't look eager to hear the answer.

Natasha shrugged. "We're spies."

"So what are you saying?"

"Director Fury brought us together to save the world, and we did," she said. "Maybe we'll do it again someday. But that doesn't make us a team. We might not ever be the team you want us to be."

"You mean, we'll never be the team I lost?" said Steve, eyeing her.

"You said it, not me."

Steve looked away. "I know," he said, in that heroic, heart-breaking way only Captain American could. "That's not what I'm asking of you. Any of you." He pushed his hand back through his hair and didn't seem to know how to finish putting his thoughts together. "I guess we're done here, then."

"Unless you want to hear Agent Sitwell's report," said Natasha. "But I don't think you do."

"No, I trust him to handle it." Steve led them out of the base, back toward the helipad. "Let's just get back to base so Director Fury can get his 'I told you sos' over with."

Natasha smirked; Steve was adjusting to life with SHIELD after all. But as they departed, she couldn't help the feeling that she should have let him in on Tony's brief confessions. She didn't, though. Counseling grown men simply wasn't in her job description.

* * *

When things landed at Stark Tower, people tweeted about it. When Tony Stark himself landed at Stark Tower three weeks after having risen from the dead to save the kidnapped president, Peter's phone almost exploded.

He was swinging the streets in Brooklyn when the first reports started coming in. Two purse-snatchers, a runaway cement mixer, and a toddler-wandering-into-traffic later, Peter was finally able to make his way back to Manhattan as fast as his webs would take him. Of course Tony would complete his resurrection only _after _winter break was finished, with a new semester biting down and five boroughs of grumpy, cabin-fevered New Yorkers demanding his attention. A decent hero would have made an appearance before everyone had used up all their vacation time glued to the news, waiting for any internet rumor or hastily snapped photo to prove Pepper's press releases true.

Tony was okay, and he was coming back to the tower.

Peter climbed onto the helipad and ran to the doors. As he peered through the glass he spotted Tony and Bruce inside, looking quite cozy reclined in Tony's expensive sofas. Tony was gesturing as he spoke, per usual, as Bruce winced at him fondly. Like nothing had happened. It made Peter want to give him hell, but of course, as soon as he was inside and Tony was looking up, that option fled his brain.

"Mr. Stark!" Peter all but leapt to Tony's side and skidded to a halt. He tugged his mask off. "Hey."

"Here it is," said Tony, gesturing to Peter as he shot Bruce a look. "This is it, isn't it? This is the reason you can't stay awake through a perfectly engaging conversation."

"It's not like that," said Bruce, red in his cheeks.

"I guess I can't blame you. I'm kind of exhausted just looking at him, I can't imagine trying to..." He glanced up and realized that Peter was still right at his arm. He seemed to chew through several facial expressions before settling on a kind of uneasy amusement. "Hey, Peter."

"Hey. Mr. Stark." Peter shifted back and forth; he didn't know what to do with himself, and when Bruce lifted his brows, he took it as cue to drop onto the sofa next to him. "Hey. Um. Hi."

Tony smirked at Bruce. "You seem to be having the same effect on him as he does you."

"Tony." Bruce was still mostly smiling, but his voice tipped more serious as he gave Peter's hand a squeeze. "We were worried."

"Yeah..." Tony squirmed like a little kid and finally sat up properly, facing the two of them. "I'm okay, Peter," he said. "Really. Sorry if I, you know. Freaked you out."

Peter finally got his words together. "'Freaked out' doesn't even begin to cover it," he said. "We watched your house get missiled into the ocean! Bruce almost Hulked out-I was _this_ close to sedating him-and then the director was calling, asking if we knew where you were, because you weren't dead after all, and then the president went missing-"

Tony held up his hand. "I already got a lecture from Rogers, thanks."

"No, I mean, I just." Peter shook his head. "I'm just glad you're okay," he came to the point. He squeezed Bruce's hand tightly back. "I'm really glad. And I'm glad you're back-the tower just didn't feel right without you."

"Yeah, well..." Tony cleared his throat, trying not to look pleased. "We'll be sticking around for a while, at least, now that the Malibu property is toast. So no more partying in the penthouse for you two. Daddy's home."

"What about the lab?" Peter asked. "We kind of...expanded down there."

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. "You what?"

"Is that Peter?" called a voice from the next room, and a moment later Pepper emerged, bundled up in an oversized sweater. When she saw Peter she grinned brightly, and Peter couldn't help but blush a little; he hadn't expected she would be so glad to see him. "Peter!" she said as she joined them. She looked him up and down. "You didn't really swing over here, did you? It is freezing out there!"

"Pepper is still running a little hot," said Tony.

She smacked his shoulder. "That is not funny."

"So, she hasn't changed at all," quipped Bruce, and though Tony was surprised by his uncharacteristic forwardness, he inclined his head approvingly.

"That's not funny, either," Pepper admonished despite her smile. She turned her attention back to Peter. "It's good to see you, Peter."

"You, too," Peter said quickly. "We only got part of the story from Director Fury, but...you're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She took a seat next to Tony. "I'll fill you in over dinner, since I think Bruce already heard the gist of it from Tony. We can have something catered in, can't we? The food at that facility was just _awful_."

"Sure, but first." Tony glared at Bruce again. "You did _what_ to my lab?"

Peter looked to Bruce, too, his toes wiggling excitedly. There was more than one reason he was glad Tony was finally back at the tower. "Can we show them?" he asked, giving Bruce's hand a shake as if that would convey exactly what he meant. "We can show them, right?"

Bruce hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Yeah, I think...he'd like that."

They all moved down to the lab. Bruce and Peter had done a little rearranging along the west wall, clearing a broad open space with an array of sensors surrounding it. Tony made a face at the changes, but he wasn't fooling anyone; he was burning with curiosity. "So are you setting up a second home theatre in this cave or what?" he asked.

"We didn't want to disrupt my lab, since there are other people that use it during the day," said Bruce, moving to a locker against the wall. "And carting the equipment up to my suite wasn't really an option, either. I didn't think you'd mind."

"'Course I don't," said Tony. "Pick out new curtains while you're at it."

Bruce opened the locker and pulled out a pair of pants, which he brought over for Tony to inspect. The fabric was heavy and thickly textured, with many seams. "It's still fairly early in development," Bruce said as Tony tugged and stretched. "Peter and I have been experimenting with nanocellulose in combination with the same prepolymers used in the synthetic webbing we developed over the summer. It's heavier than I would like, but with some more refinements I think we can get the weight down without losing its elasticity."

"Right now the elasticity is the most important part," said Peter. "To, you know. Prevent accidents."

Pepper rubbed the ankle cuff between her fingers. "This is for you?" she asked, and then shook her head. "I mean, for...the other you?"

Tony showed a hint of a smile. "You're making yourself a uniform." He raised an eyebrow. "Purple, though?"

Bruce shrugged helplessly while Peter bounced on the balls of his feet. "It was Hulk's pick," said Peter. "He's the one that's going to be wearing it, after all."

Pepper glanced between them, surprised; Peter couldn't wait to see the look on her face. "_Hulk's_ pick? You mean, you asked him?"

"Of course. Come on, Bruce." Peter continued to bounce happily. "Show'm."

"Guess I'll go change," said Bruce. He had a glimmer in his eye that Peter adored as he headed behind a line of cabinets. "Give me a minute."

Once he was out of view, Pepper leaned in close to Peter. "Is it safe?" she whispered.

"Totally. You guys have missed a lot since you've been gone." Peter faced them with full seriousness. "We practice with Hulk about once a week now. There haven't been any incidents-not major ones, anyway-and it's really improved Bruce's control _and_ Hulk's focus and communication. Even Director Fury was impressed." Pride made him grin openly. "He's gonna be a full-fledged Avenger from now on, not just some last minute gamble. We're making sure of it."

Tony's eyes pinched with an unreadable expression. "Yeah, but..." He made a scratching motion toward his chin. "How do you feel about _this_?"

"Hate it," Peter said immediately. "It makes him look even older."

"Hey," Bruce called from the other side of the cabinets. "I can hear you."

"I've already said it to your face!"

"I think it's very handsome," said Pepper. "But I guess that's no surprise." She gave Tony's cheek a pat.

"I was going for _distinguished_," Bruce said as he rejoined them in only the experimental pants.

Tony snorted. "There is nothing 'distinguished' about what you're wearing right now."

"I know the outfit could use some development," said Bruce, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. "We tried making a shirt, but there is a limit to how far the material can stretch with its current makeup. And...Hulk kept ripping it off, anyway."

"It what 'Hulks' do, I guess," Tony joked.

Bruce rolled his eyes. "Did you really just go there?"

"Should I not have? It was sitting right there."

"C'mon, Bruce," said Peter. He was bouncing again, unable to contain his anticipation. "Show them what you can do."

"All right, all right." Bruce waved at them. "Stand back."

All three took a step back as Bruce closed his eyes. Several deep breaths later his shoulders jerked, hunching, and his skin grew dark and stretched over his lengthening bones. Peter had seen it so many times; he watched Tony and Pepper instead, enjoying their shared looks of awe. There was some trepidation in Pepper's face as Hulk grew beneath their eyes, but Tony didn't waver. He was almost smug.

Within seconds Hulk was looming over them; as soon as the transformation was complete he crouched down to put them on a more even eye level. "Tony," he greeted, lips pulling wide in a grin. "Home."

Tony couldn't help but grin back. "Hey there, big guy."

"Oh my god," Pepper murmured, clinging to Tony's arm. Her knees wobbled a little.

"Oh yeah, that's right," said Tony. He supported her in a step forward. "You've never seen him up close and in person, huh?"

Hulk stretched his hand out, and though Pepper hesitated at first, she finally gave his finger a squeeze. "Pepper," he said. "Home."

"Y-Yeah." She beamed up at him like a child before a dinosaur. "Yes, thank you."

"Aha, I was wondering about this." Tony poked at the whiskers covering Hulk's chin. "Everything carries over, huh?"

Hulk's face screwed up. "Itchy," he complained. He grumbled and rubbed his hand across his beard. "Face grow, grow, beard. Too much face."

"Ah," said Peter, "he's trying to say-"

"I get it." Tony scratched under Hulk's chin as if he were a puppy, which Hulk allowed only a moment before shying away in embarrassment. "When he changes, his skin grows and expands faster than his hair can grow. Feels pretty weird, huh?"

"Say Bruce, smash it. Smash beard."

"Sure, I'll tease him into submission for you." Tony tilted his head. "Looks like the pants really do hold up, at least." Hulk allowed him to tug on the waistband. "Seem pretty durable, too. Have you done any environmental tests?"

"Well, they're waterproof," said Peter. "Doesn't lose their properties between -10 to 104 degrees Celsius. We haven't figured out how to go about making it fireproof yet."

Hulk nodded, his brow deeply furrowed. "Some boom."

Tony smirked. "Yeah, explosions are part of the job. I have some experience there, so I'm sure we'll be able to figure something out." He moved toward the workstation that controlled the array of cameras and sensors Bruce and Peter had set up. "Let's take a peek at what you've been up to."

Peter let them go, grinning almost ear to ear as Hulk pointed to the different video files he wanted Tony watch. When he looked to Pepper, it was gratifying all over again to see the open astonishment in her face. "It's really something," he said, "isn't it?"

"Peter, it's incredible. I didn't know he could be like this. He's calm, he's talking." She chuckled, watching Hulk stick his tongue out in concentration as he tapped something on the monitor as gently as he could. "Is it really Bruce in control now?"

"It's...kind of hard to explain." Even after all the efforts they'd made, Peter himself wasn't confident he could put it into words. "But the important thing is, it's working," he said. "It's almost like we broke through a wall, you know? Hulk is growing all the time, and Bruce is accepting him. It's so much better for him." Emotion made Peter's throat tight, but he pushed through it. "He's so much happier. It's almost unbelievable how good this has been for him."

"I believe it." Pepper smiled at him warmly. "You've really done wonders for him, Peter. But it couldn't have been easy for you. How are _you_ doing?"

The question caught Peter off guard, and for a moment he couldn't answer, startled by the sudden pressure against his chest. "I'm okay," he said. He hadn't expected that it would feel so good to say. "It really was tough, for a while. There were times I thought I might be doing more harm than good, but...he's okay, and I'm okay. Things really are better than ever. Almost better than I thought they ever could be." He blushed. "Um, thank you. For asking."

"I'm happy for you," Pepper said. "I could see the difference in Bruce as soon as I saw him." She hesitated a moment and then added, "I hope it'll be just as good for Tony, being back here."

Peter glanced to her curiously; he couldn't tell if she was inviting him to ask what she meant. Tony seemed fine to him, but it wasn't as if he knew him _that_ well... "What about you?" he asked instead. "We heard you were kidnapped for a while."

"Not just that." Pepper hesitated again, but another glance at Tony and Hulk showed they were deeply involved in their test data and not paying attention. "I don't know if you heard this part, but I had super powers for a while."

Peter straightened up. "Really? From the Extremis? What did you get-super strength? Fire-breathing?"

Pepper laughed, but there was something strained in her voice that quickly sobered Peter's enthusiasm. "Among other things," she said. "But really, it was..." She shuffled her feet. "It was frightening," she admitted at last. "Exciting, at some points, but _really_ frightening. Like it wasn't my body anymore." She faced Peter seriously. "I have a new respect for you, Peter. You, and Bruce, and Steve... I only had a taste of what it must be like to do what you do every day. You're all really something."

"Yeah, but what _you_ do, you run this whole giant company, and..." Peter shook himself. "I mean, thanks, I appreciate that. But you're really awesome, too."

Peter blushed when he realized how he sounded, congratulating a billionaire CEO on her awesomeness, but Pepper laughed. "Oh, I know," she said. "Thanks, Peter."

"Have you clocked him yet?" Tony asked.

Both of them jumped, and they shared a smile. "What?" asked Peter.

"Have you clocked him?" Tony jerked his thumb toward Hulk. "I see you've done some strength tests but what about how fast he is?"

"Oh-no, not yet. We'd need to get out of the lab for that."

"Hulk very fast," Hulk said.

"I don't doubt it, big guy." Tony closed the window he'd been scrolling through and turned back to Pepper and Peter. "Maybe we can get Fury to clear an airfield for us and get some accurate data. How fast he is, how far he can jump. Interesting stuff to have, right?"

Hulk puffed his cheeks mightily. "Fun."

"In the meantime, I think I'll order us some dinner," said Pepper. "You boys have fun, and I'll call you up when it's here."

"Yeah, sure," said Tony. "Thanks, Pepper." As Pepper left, Tony waved for Peter to come closer. "C'mere, Parker. Hulk's already shown me a few things, but I want to hear it from you, too. Show me what you've been working on."

"Sure!" Peter hurried over on light feet. _This will be good for him_, he thought, glancing behind him just in time to catch Pepper smiling back at him. _For both of them, for Bruce, for me._ Excitement gave him goose bumps. _For the Avengers. Everything is going to get even better._


	2. Chapter 2

**66 Weeks of Aftermath**

Chapter 2: Budget Cuts

* * *

The last thing Samuel Sterns remembered was Bruce pleading with him across a table, and then shattering glass. _Lots_ of shattering glass.

What followed was a parade of the most vivid dreams Sterns had ever had. He shrank to the size of a subatomic particle, ricocheting between swirling electrons. He became a mitochondrion, dividing again and again to keep up with the needs of his cell. He witnessed sunsets dipping through Stonehenge, casting shadows at angles they had been casting for millennia. He dreamed of thermonuclear fusion, and dead languages, and human neurons lighting up like summer fireworks.

And then more breaking glass, and more neurons—so many twinkling neurons, like seizure-Christmas. Like his life flashing before his eyes, but that was a bit dramatic, for him. It was more akin to opening every textbook he'd ever read at once and absorbing lines of text like Matrix code. It was the best dream he had ever had. He felt like a god.

When Sterns woke up, it was to a breathing tube, an IV, and a catheter. The lights were low and his ears buzzed with unidentifiable noises.

It wasn't the first time he had woken up in a hospital. In his second year of graduate school, he and his roommate, having gone to see Robocop for the third time, wound up in intensive care after competing to create a working Alex Murphy visor. _At least you're not blind,_ his advisor had said, and he reminded himself of that as he blinked the haze out of his weary vision. He could just barely make out the bedrails, the heart monitor, a shaded window. _You're not blind, or deaf, and you can feel your fingers and toes. _His throat burned against the tracheal tube when he tried to speak, so he stretched his hand out, groping for a nurse's call button. _No casts—nothing's broken. Why is everything so heavy?_ He wasn't strapped down, but trying to lift any of his limbs felt like he was wading through mud. _Where am I?_

If he found a button to press, he couldn't tell, but a nurse did show up. Her voice swam in and out of coherence, but Sterns understood her well enough to learn that he was "fine," whatever that really meant, and that he should remain calm. He had been involved in some kind of accident, apparently. He remembered Bruce, and Betty, and breaking glass, and... blood...and he would have asked if they were all right, but the tube was still down his throat and by then the nurse was moving away anyway.

Sterns closed his eyes, wishing he could go back to his dream when he was God.

Sometime later, the nurse came back with a doctor. They took his vitals, asked him to rate his pain on his fingers—a four, he indicated, pointing to his throbbing head and sore throat—and gave him medication. They told him to stay calm because he was "fine, all things considered," whatever that really meant, and that it wouldn't be long before they could remove his breathing tube. He slept some more, dozing in and out of consciousness through several more visits by doctors and nurses and whoever else, until at long last he was breathing on his own and sipping cool water from a plastic cup with a straw. It was then that Sterns got his first familiar visitors.

Curt Connors entered as the other doctors left. He looked just as Sterns remembered from the last conference they had attended together in Boston. At first Sterns was touched to be the focus of a colleague's concern, but then he realized that Curt was in his lab coat with a security badge pinned to the pocket. "Curt," said Sterns, reaching for the controls to his bed. It was still too much effort to sit up on his own. "Long time no see. What are you doing here? We're not..." He chuckled. "We're not at Oscorp, are we?"

"No, we're not. I don't work for Osborn anymore." Curt smiled as he took a seat at Sterns' bedside. "How are you feeling, Sam?"

"I've been better," Sterns admitted, placing his water cup on the side table. "But I've probably been worse."

Curt's smile grew to be more of a grimace. "If you have, it can't be by much. Do you remember the accident?"

Sterns strained his memory, but it only made his head pound. "No. No, the last thing I remember is..." He did, however, remember just in time what the circumstances before the accident had been. "...being in the lab. Breaking glass. What happened?"

"I'm afraid I don't know all the details," said Curt. "But there is someone here who does."

He turned toward the open door. Sterns looked for himself, and felt a wave of relief when Bruce Banner stepped through, also dressed in a white lab coat and carrying a tablet under his arm. "Hello, Sam," he said as he, too, approached the bed. "It's good to see you up."

"Bruce." Sterns relaxed deeper into the mattress. "Gosh, I'm glad to see you're okay. Is it..." He glanced to Curt and back. "Is it safe to talk? I thought you stayed far away from this sort of thing."

"It's okay," Bruce assured. "Curt knows all about me. He and I have been corresponding for a while now, especially on your case."

Sterns frowned. "My case? I'm just banged up a little, aren't I? Why would..." He trailed off with a cold feeling when he noticed the way Curt and Bruce looked at each other, silently deciding who would deliver the news.

"Sam," Curt said gently. "I don't want to alarm you, but there's no easy way to say this. You've been in a coma for a long time now."

"How..." Sterns shook his head; sure, he was still a little fuzzy, and his entire body felt like it was made of molasses, but... "How long is 'a long time?'"

"It's been two years," he said, and Sterns' stomach turned. "Today is March 11th, 2013."

Sterns shook his head. "No it's not." He scoffed. "That's... that's ridiculous. I don't even feel all that bad."

"They've taken good care of you," said Curt. "You've received care this entire time to keep your muscles from atrophying, your organs strong." When Sterns could only stare back, at him, he winced. "I'm sorry; I know it's not easy to hear."

"Of course not, because...it's not true. Right?" Sterns looked to Bruce, his heart in his throat. "Right?"

"Sam," said Bruce. "Do you remember the test we performed in the lab? The formula you made for me?"

Sterns looked between the two men again, but neither of them were laughing, were telling him it was a joke, and the sobering reality sent his head reeling. "I..." He swallowed hard and focused on Bruce's question. "Yes, I remember." He remembered watching all 5'8" of Bruce Banner stretch to the size of a small shed on his table, a mindless beast, and the exhilaration of taming it. "The test—it was a success. You reverted back. Did it stick? Are you cured?"

"No," Bruce said. "But that's not important right now. Do you remember what happened _after_ the test? You and I were talking in the lab." He waited a moment, but Sterns could only shake his head. "We were arguing about what to do with the blood."

_We have to destroy it,_ Bruce had said. Sterns remembered that much because the words had almost flipped him on his head. They made even less sense than a few bruises putting him in a coma for two years. "The last thing I remember is breaking glass," he said. "Something...came through the window?"

Bruce winced. "A tranq dart."

Sterns furrowed his brow as he tried to remember even that much, but the rest was all a blur of white and black, and a high pitched whine that made him think of distant stars straining to be heard on a billion different frequencies. "Nope," he said. "Nothing. That's all I've got."

Bruce pulled out his tablet, tapping and swiping. "This man was there," he said, handing it over. "Emil Blonksy. You don't recognize him?"

There was a picture of a man in a military uniform. Sterns squinted at him, trying to fit him into that blur of shifting light, but all that came to him was a feeling of pressure against his neck. He shook his head. "Sorry, but no. Maybe he's familiar? I really don't remember." He scrolled down the file and stopped at a photo that looked like it had been pulled from a television newscast. It wasn't entirely clear, but Sterns had seen the impossible, and he knew at once what it was: a giant of a man, green skin stretched over an incredible musculature. But it wasn't Bruce. "This is... this is him?" He lifted his head. "There's two of you?"

Bruce shifted his weight, and Curt took over, saying, "Captain Blonsky was injected with the same serum that Bruce was, but he was never exposed to the same degree of gamma radiation. In fact, if the testimony we've received is accurate, he responded very well to the treatment in all areas of his physiology. Psychologically, however..."

"He was at the lab that night," said Bruce. "To collect me for the military. But after Betty and I left the lab, something happened in there, to the both of you. He became that."

Sterns' eyes went wide. His hairs stood on end. He remembered dreams about Stonehenge and luminescent green Matrix code. "And...me?"

They hesitated. Sterns had never been the best interpreter of body language but he could see very clearly that the two of them had arranged a story ahead of time, and were then deciding all over again whether to go through with it. "What about me?" he insisted. "What happened to me?"

"You were found with a severe head wound," said Curt, leaning closer. "Your skull was fractured just above your left eyebrow." Sterns reached up as Curt continued talking, feeling out the shape of a scar across his forehead that ran nearly temple to temple. "Now, I've only read the files; it was a Dr. Clarke that operated on you at the time. I'm afraid she no longer works for SHIELD, so I haven't been able to consult with her, but—"

"What is this?" Sterns followed the scar over and over; the tissue had long since healed, but all of a sudden it seemed to itch. He tried to take a deep breath but his lungs hitched. "This is more than a trauma injury, is this...is this a brain surgery scar?"

"There was some concern that there might have been damage to your frontal lobe. But the surgery—"

"You operated on _my brain_?" Sterns shuddered, suddenly light-headed—he felt as if his brain had resettled crookedly while his head was spinning. "You didn't have any right to do that," he said. Panic quivered through his fingers as he reached for the sensors decorating his chest. "You can't just _do_ that. I didn't consent to—"

"Sam." Bruce took his wrists, and the strength of his grip startled him. "I'm sorry," Bruce said. "Whatever happened in that lab, it was because of me, and I didn't even stay long enough to realize you'd been hurt. I'm so sorry."

Sterns squirmed, his breath still coming fast, but he managed to wrangle his composure back to him. "This is crazy," he muttered. "It's just nuts."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry." Bruce let him go, and as he replaced the sensors on Sterns' chest, Curt reclined the bed horizontal once more. "But they only did what they thought was best in order to bring you back. To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd ever wake up at all, and look at you." He smiled faintly. "You're talking, you're coordinated. There's probably a long recovery ahead of you, but you're all right. It's going to be all right."

Sterns took in a deep breath and held it for a moment. When he let it out, he finally started to feel calmer. "It's going to be all right," he repeated, as if he could make himself believe it.

"Get some more rest," said Curt, giving his hand a brief squeeze. "You probably don't feel like sleeping after how much you've done already, but it'll do you some good. A little patience will go a long way toward your recovery."

"Yeah." Sterns took in another deep breath and then let it out. "Yeah, I guess so. Thanks."

Bruce retrieved his tablet. "We'll be back later. Take it easy, all right?"

The two of them showed themselves out, turning the lights out along the way. Sterns gazed up at the darkened ceiling, pretending it was an empty screen upon which he could project the images in his brain. But there was only Bruce, arguing with him across a table, and breaking glass, and all the impossible images from his dreams rotating like the Andromeda Galaxy beneath the surface of his skull.

The next seventy-two hours were mostly a blur. He dozed in and out, he ate and he drank. Nurses came and went. People asked him questions and sometimes he could answer. Little by little he got stronger, until he could sit up on his own. By the end of the week they removed his catheter and he was able to walk the few steps to the bathroom. He showered for the first time in two years, and it wasn't until then, with the hot water heaven on his back, that he really understood how long of a time that was.

He tried to ask questions. Why couldn't he at least have a television in the room? A tablet with Wi-Fi? A book or a newspaper? But the nurses only replied that he needed to focus on recovering, and there would be time for catching up later. He was doing so well, they told him. He didn't need to worry about anything else. They didn't understand. Two years, and his entire field of study had changed. Everything he used to teach in the lecture halls was obsolete. His best assistants had probably graduated and were pursuing careers, breaking boundaries, changing the world. He had missed _so much_. Two years made him a _dinosaur_.

"It sounds like a long time," said one of the nurses as she took his vitals. "But your family and employers all know you were in the accident. The dean said you're welcome back when you're ready. SHIELD has even kept up your apartment while you've been gone."

"What _is_ SHIELD?" Stern asked, but the nurse told him to focus on his recovery and then refilled his water before leaving. He poked and tugged at the scar crossing his forehead.

Almost two weeks after he woke up, Bruce and Curt came back. Sterns looked straight at them and said, "This isn't a hospital, is it."

"It's a SHIELD facility," said Curt.

"So." Sterns tried to expel that creeping sensation of panic from easing into his chest. "The government. Right?"

"You didn't really expect less, did you?" asked Bruce, trying to sound light. "I told you so."

"Something else is going on." Sterns swung his legs off the side of the bed. "Why do you both keep looking at me like that? Is there something you want to tell me or not?"

The men exchanged a look, and Sterns was working himself up to losing his temper when Bruce said, "The truth is, we need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes. I need to know if you remember the formula you used to treat me before."

Sterns' hands twitched; he could see atoms stacking, letters and numbers arranging themselves into proper order. "Well, sure," he said. "I mean, I might need a refresher to jog my memory, but I'm pretty sure that with the right equipment I could pull it together again. Why? It was all stored at the lab."

Bruce lowered his eyes and his voice sympathetically. "The lab was destroyed the night of the accident, Sam. There wasn't anything left of your serum, or the data you used to make it."

_Destroyed_. Sterns felt a pang of grief for the hours he and his young assistants had spent within those four walls, duct-taping computer casings together. The loss gutted him in a way he wouldn't have expected. "Along with all that blood, I'm sure," he said quietly, and damn, if Bruce didn't look guilty just then.

"Sam," Curt said gently. "We'd like for you to help us recreate that serum. There's someone here who desperately needs it."

If there was anything that could refocus Sterns' attention, it was the implication of a green Olympian lurking somewhere nearby. He remembered watching Hulk on the table and gulped. It was starting to come together. "That man you showed me," he said, eyes widening. "He's here? He survived?"

Curt nodded. "I've been on his case for almost nine months now," he said. "Sometimes we're able to revert him back to his human state, but never for very long. He keeps regressing. We've been forced to keep him sedated while we try to sort it out, but I'm afraid we haven't had much luck. Bruce and I were hoping you might give us a hand with him, once you're able."

"Sedated," Sterns repeated. The word jumped out at him, and for a moment he could have sworn he felt sutures being plucked from his scalp. When he looked up at Bruce and Curt, their faces seemed to smear together as if he was looking at them though glass. "Like I was?" he said, not sure what he was testing for. He just wanted to see their expressions.

"No," said Bruce. His face didn't change. "You were in a coma."

Curt glanced between them. "Maybe this is too soon."

"No." Sterns took a deep breath to dispel his paranoia and used the bedside table to help him stand. "No, I want to help, if I can." He even smiled. "Can I see him? Up close?"

* * *

Sterns was given scrubs to wear, and after a brief protest he allowed Bruce to push him in a wheelchair through the base. It was only then, seeing glimpses of blue through porthole windows, that Sterns realized. "We're on a boat?"

"We're on the ocean," said Bruce. "But it's not exactly a boat."

They passed through a heavily guarded security checkpoint and into the lab. Sterns' jaw dropped, and he wasn't able to take a breath for so long that he nearly fainted.

The creatures were in front of him—not just the abomination that he had seen on Bruce's tablet, but two more, each of them sealed in great glass cylinders full of pale fluids. None of them looked particularly similar except in majesty; they were tall and broad, with long limbs and stern musculature. It was like being in a museum for Hollywood monsters, and Sterns could only gape from one to the next, his mind erupting with possibilities.

"There's—there's three," he stammered when he was able to speak. He forgot everything he had been through and vaulted from the wheelchair. "Three! You showed me this one, but... My God, they're magnificent." A handful of scientists were spread around the room, and they all looked to Sterns in confusion as he ran up to the first cylinder and pressed his hands to the glass. "Look at this level of mutation! Look at that bone structure! This one kind of looks like you, Bruce, but these... Are they even human? I mean, did they start as humans? The government wasn't experimenting on reptiles, were they?"

Curt cleared his throat awkwardly, but he didn't get the chance to speak. "They're all human," said Bruce. "_Still_ human. Emil Blonsky, Norman Osborn, and Justin Hammer."

"Wait, wait." Sterns left one hand on the chamber as he turned over his shoulder. "_The_ Norman Osborn?"

"It's a long story."

"Well, yes! Yes, it would have to be." Sterns moved to Osborn's cylinder and tapped on the glass. "Remarkable. And they've been sedated all this time?" He frowned as he looked over the various wires and tubes attached to Osborn's face, chest, and wrists, just like the other two. "For two whole years?"

"These other two haven't been here as long as Blonsky," said Curt, moving alongside him. "And they weren't exposed to the same serum, either. But Blonsky." Curt steered him back to the first chamber. "The process he underwent was very similar to Bruce's, which is why we're hopeful you'll be able to help. If there's some way we can modify your original formula to keep him from ever transforming into this again..."

"What a waste," Sterns muttered, but then he felt Bruce at his back and he shook his head. "I know I can recreate my formula," he said. "It's just a matter of the right equipment, which... it sure looks like you have plenty of here. We can do this." He nodded more to himself than to them. "Just give me a workstation."

Curt sighed. "There's just one more thing," he said.

Stern winced at his tone. "Always is, huh?"

"We don't have much time left."

"Meaning...?"

"The funding for this project has been cut," Bruce explained, with the helpless gravity that all three of them understood so well. "The base itself is being decommissioned, so everything here is being divided up and shipped off to other facilities." Bruce shook his head. "They don't think it's worth the money and effort to keep working on them. If we can't demonstrate some kind of progress by the end of the month..."

"Not worth..." Sterns stared at him incredulously. "_Not worth_ it? The greatest advancement in human molecular biology in a century and it's _not worth_ it? Who are 'they,' and have they seen this?" Sterns gestured emphatically to the tubes behind him. "Don't they realize how important this is, how many things we could learn from them?"

"I don't need them," said a voice from the entrance.

Sterns looked, and for a moment thought he was seeing things as a tall man in a long black jacket and eye-patch approached him. "Dr. Sterns," he said. "I know you've been through a lot, and this must be even more for you to take in. I appreciate your willingness to work with us."

He extended his hand, and Sterns shook it just to make sure he was real. "I'm sorry; you are...?"

"Nick Fury. The 'they' you were just talking about." Sterns straightened up, but he didn't get anything out before Fury was talking again. "I understand your concerns, doctor, but these men are dangerous. They've been kept sedated for good reasons. Now, we've spent a long time and a lot of money trying to sort them out, but it's just not happening. We need to move on."

Sterns's mouth flapped over a response. Being on his feet was already starting to make him lightheaded, and he wasn't able to give Fury a piece of his mind when it was already so fragile. "So, wait. Where will they go? What will happen to them?"

"Norman Osborn will be released to Oscorp," said Fury. "They've already agreed. The other two will be transferred to a secure cold storage facility."

"Cold storage?" Sterns wavered on his feet, but he barely noticed when Bruce took his elbow to steady him. "You're just going to lock them away and forget about it? Like they don't exist—like they're not even human?"

"Sorry to say, they haven't given us any other option."

"But they're...you can't..." Sterns rubbed his head in frustration; everything was starting to blur together, but when one of the room techs brought the wheelchair closer, he ignored it. "They're important. Look at them. There's so much—"

"Sam," Bruce said, taking Stern's shoulder as well. "These aren't subjects for us to learn from, they are our patients. All we can do right now is focus on trying to help them in the time that we have left."

Sterns kept shaking his head. He wanted to give Bruce a piece of his mind, too, but he was running short. He kept thinking about pinpoints of starlight seeping through the cracks in his skull. At last, he allowed Bruce to help him back into the wheelchair, and he slumped over his knees, trying to knead the sudden, throbbing pain out of his temples.

"Director Fury," Curt said quietly. "Could you give us a moment?"

"It's in your hands, doctors."

The door opened and then closed again. Sterns kept his head down, measuring breaths through his nose, as the surrounding technicians went back to their work. When Curt touched his shoulder, he flinched.

"I'm sorry," said Curt. "I know we're asking a lot from you, Sam. But you understand how these things work."

"Yeah." Sterns laughed bitterly. "Yeah, I get it. The golden rule." He shook his head one last time and then resolved not to do that anymore; it was making his vision swim. A few blinks cleared it again. "Guess we'll just have to get some fast results."

"We can start tomorrow, if you're not up to it now," Bruce offered. "Curt and I—"

"I just need a workstation," said Sterns. "I'm ready now."

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, the three men watched as Sterns' formula was fed into Blonsky's veins.

The change occurred fairly quickly. Within thirty seconds of the final drop being administered, Blonsky's massive body began to shudder in the tube. His limbs curled with involuntary muscle spasms and his heart rate rose. Curt kept a nervous eye on the readout of his vitals, and Bruce grimaced with empathy, but Sterns watched the entire transformation with strict attention. He had seen it before, with Hulk. He wanted his second memory to be much clearer.

Gradually, Blonsky shrank; his skin drew in tight against a human frame and smoothed over his protruding bones. Three minutes later, there was only a man floating in the tube, hairless and pale. Sterns took a step closer to get a look at his face.

"It worked," he murmured, both relieved and disappointed to see the giant reduced to such a state. Blonsky looked to be in decent physical shape considering his ordeals, but he was smaller than Sterns had expected. "Will you look at that. He isn't any taller than Bruce after all."

Curt breathed a long sigh of relief, but Bruce was already shaking his head. "It worked, but now's the hard part. How long will he stay that way?"

"In our previous attempts, he reverted back whenever we tried to wake him from sedation," said Curt. "The longest he's been conscious since he was admitted was eight minutes. As far as we can tell, he's much more sensitive than you ever were, Bruce. The slightest emotional stimuli is able to set him off."

Sterns finally turned away from the tube. "Didn't you say before that the trigger is anger?"

"It was for me, yes," said Bruce, frowning up at Blonsky as he swayed against the glass. "But that doesn't mean it's the same for him. Anger, fear, confusion. Anything or a number of things could trigger him."

Sterns rubbed absently at his forehead. "What if we...dulled all that?" he suggested. "Just for long enough that we could talk to him for a while?" He shrugged with one shoulder. "Wouldn't even have to be prescription."

His half smirk earned him a disapproving look from Curt. "You want to get him high?"

"He'd have to be doped up to the point of being incapacitated," said Bruce. "If that's the only way to keep him in human form, we may as well just leave him sedated." When he realized both men were eyeing him, he snorted. "I lived with this for almost seven years—I tried everything."

"So what worked?" Sterns came closer, watching Bruce carefully. He didn't know if he would be able to tell if Bruce lied. "You're a lot calmer than I remember, considering we're surrounded by the same government agents you were running from last time. You said you're not cured, but something is working, isn't it?"

"It was..." Bruce rubbed his nose. Was he blushing? "It's a combination of things. Coping mechanisms. But mostly...I guess you'd call it therapy."

Curt gave him a strange look that Sterns was at a total loss to interpret and then cleared his throat. "Yes, well, unfortunately we don't have time to afford Captain Blonksy that kind of therapy," he said. "About the best we can do for now is to administer some manner of anxiolytic and try to wake him up. Maybe now that we have Sterns' complete serum on hand, it will be enough to keep him stable."

"Yes, it's worth a try."

Sterns turned back to the tube. _Keep him stable,_ he thought. _For what? Where will he go after this?_ He glanced to their remaining two patients. _Even if it works, what's going to happen to any of them?_

Within a few hours, the experiment was set. Blonsky, still deeply sedated, had been dried off and dressed in a hospital gown. They laid him out in a bed in the center of a heavily fortified chamber, with bright lights and cameras all around watching him twitch in his sleep. Everyone said he was too far under to be dreaming, but Sterns wasn't so sure. He sat in his wheelchair on the other side of the glass wall, Bruce next to him, as Curt and an assistant made adjustments to the devices inside, which were ready to pump Blonsky full of Sterns' formula in case any mishaps occurred.

"You don't really think he can be cured, do you?" Sterns asked.

He felt Bruce looking at him, but he didn't look up. "No," said Bruce. "The saturation of radiation in his blood is almost as strong as in mine. I doubt he'll ever be rid of it completely."

"But there's a chance that he could learn to control it, like you, right? I mean, that's the entire point. The reason he was made."

Bruce sighed. "Not exactly. Like I told you before, we were trying to recreate a human super-soldier." Inside the chamber, Curt was finishing his adjustments, and he signaled to his peers that they were almost ready to begin. "Blonsky was never supposed to end up like this."

Sterns pursed his lips. "But if he could control it, wouldn't that—"

"Sam, let's not have this conversation just now."

At last Sterns looked, and he couldn't say he liked the expression on Bruce's face then. He was a bit too bitterly resolute for Sterns' tastes. But the experiment was beginning, so he just shifted in his chair and faced forward.

The other technicians left the chamber, leaving Curt inside alone with Blonsky. He administered the counter-agent; Bruce and Sterns both leaned forward as they watched it take effect. Anticipation made it seem like ages, but at last Blonksy squirmed on the bed with a tiny groan. His eyelids peeled open and he squinted at the room around him in bleary confusion.

"Captain Blonsky," Curt said gently, his voice thin through the exterior speakers. "Good morning. It's good to have you with us."

Blonsky tried to move, but his arms didn't make it far off the bed. Sterns winced with empathy. "Where am I?" Blonsky muttered. "Who're you?"

"I'm Dr. Curt Connors," he introduced himself. "And you're in a military medical facility. But don't worry; you're not injured. You may feel sluggish for a while, but it will pass. Are you in any pain?"

Blonsky's brow furrowed as he considered. Something in his pinched face caught Sterns' attention, and he found himself standing out of his chair. "No," said Blonsky. "I'm not in any pain." He tried to see more of the room, but the effort exhausted him. "I've woken up here before, haven't I? I remember you."

"Yes, that's right. What else do you remember?"

Sterns didn't realize he was up on his toes until Bruce touched his shoulder. "Sam? Are you all right?"

But Sterns was a thousand miles away, breaking glass in his ears and something tight and sweating around his neck. The rough edges of Blonsky's voice made his fingertips tingle. "I do remember him," Sterns murmured, watching Blonsky's hands curl against the bed sheets. "He was there in the lab, he..." His face scrunched. "He hit me."

"I remember...the city," Blonsky was saying. "We were in New York City. Something happened, didn't it? The general, he..." Suddenly Blonsky's expression grew harder, though he still looked more confused than anything. "Where's General Ross? Is he here? I was on an assignment for him."

Sterns was moving before he knew it. Bruce reached for him but he was too late; Sterns was at the door to the chamber, letting himself in. Curt startled in alarm, but he tried not to show it. "Dr. Sterns—"

Sterns strode past him right up to Blonsky's bedside. Up close, he was surer than ever: he remembered him. "Captain," he said, abruptly out of breath. "Do you remember me?"

Blonsky stared up at him and frowned. "What?"

"My name is Samuel Sterns, from Empire State University." When it looked like Curt was considering intervention, Sterns signaled for him to stay back. "That assignment you were on brought you into my lab at the college. Do you remember? I'm pretty sure you wrung my neck."

Slowly, recognition came into Blonsky's blood-shot eyes. "You were there?"

"Yes—yes, of course I was there." Despite Curt's glare on him, he grabbed Blonsky's hand and squeezed it tight. "Do you remember what happened in the lab? Something happened to us. You have to remember what it was."

"Happened," Blonsky repeated, trying to sit up.

Curt took Sterns' elbow, but he wouldn't be deterred. "Captain, please!" he insisted. "You have to remember what happened to us!"

"Sam, that's enough," Curt said sharply, and then then one of the techs was back, helping him in pulling Sterns away from the bed. "This isn't helping Captain Blonsky now."

"Wait—just wait." Sterns fought back, but not strongly enough, as he was tugged toward the open door. "Just let him answer the question!"

The techs pushed Sterns out of the chamber, and he stumbled backwards. He would have fallen if it wasn't for Bruce steadying him, but his attention was still on the inside. Blonsky's face had changed. He was staring at the open chamber door, eyes wide and focused. He didn't look angry. He glared at Bruce with an almost eager recognition, and then his skin began to turn green, starting out from his cheeks like a flush.

Bruce all but leapt at a nearby control panel, engaging the failsafe IV. Curt ordered everyone out. Sterns stayed to watch. He didn't blink as Blonsky swelled on the bed, his jaw stretching with bony protrusions, his shoulders growing broad. He had seen Blonsky's other form, had been studying it from behind glass for hours, but it was something else watching it take shape first hand. It was humbling and exhilarating, and it didn't last long enough.

The serum being pumped into Blonsky's veins halted his transformation before he even cleared three hundred pounds. He gasped and writhed on the bed, pulling at his hospital gown, and finally slumped onto his back with a hissing exhalation. The green left his flesh and soon he was soft and human again.

Everyone peered cautiously into the chamber. When Blonsky's vital readouts had completely leveled out, Bruce heaved a sigh. "God damn it, Sam."

Sterns let his breath out, too. His scalp was tingling like there were Tesla coils under his skull. "I've seen that before," he murmured, shaking his finger at the slumbering Blonsky. "I remember that. He changed, in the lab. I was there—I was the first to see it!"

"I thought we agreed on _reducing_ emotional stimuli," Curt said angrily.

"That wasn't me—that was _him_." Sterns waved at Bruce. "He recognized _you_, at least."

"Which is why _we_ were supposed to stay _outside_ the chamber," said Bruce.

"How was I supposed to get any answers out of him from outside the chamber?"

Curt sighed with exasperation. "This is not about _you_."

"Yes it is!" Sterns shouted back. "Yes it is, because the two of you are still keeping something from me—something that happened in that lab, to me. To him, and to me, and—and how am I going to find out what it is if not from him?" He grabbed Curt's elbow. "Wake him back up. I'll behave this time, I'll just—"

"Sam, you need to calm down," said Bruce, easing the two men apart. "We're not keeping anything from you; you suffered a head wound, that's all. I know how frustrating it is to have gaps in your memory, but what difference does it make at this point? Do you really need to hear from him how he threw you across a room? Brought a building down on your head? Because that's all he could possibly tell you."

Sterns shuddered. He looked from Bruce, to Curt, to the techs shuffling nearby, and felt as if the old college bricks were tumbling down on him. He remembered Blonsky towering over him, the abomination he had been promised to become, and glass shattering all around. But that didn't make Bruce right. There was still more to know. He could taste it at the back of his throat, sense it shifting beneath the surface of his skin. He had been different. If only for a while, he had been _more._

And he tried to say as much, but then a woman rushed over to them, saying, "Dr. Connors, it's Mr. Osborn."

* * *

"All right, gentlemen," said Director Fury, hands folded on the table. "It's about time someone explained to me what is the deal with Norman Osborn."

"He's as stable as we can get him, for now," said Curt as Sterns threw away his latex gloves. "But his liver functionality is all but gone, same for his kidneys, his small intestines. He likely won't be able to breathe off a respirator even if he was conscious. My serum just isn't enough to repair the damage at this stage."

"Damage from what _exactly_, doctor?"

Sterns joined them at the table, though he couldn't help but glance through the observation glass back into the lab. Osborn had been removed from his tube and was laid out on a slab, the only approximation of a bed that would hold him in his lizard state. The techs hadn't even bothered to restrain him.

"Mr. Osborn's condition is extremely rare," Curt was saying. "Years ago his doctors diagnosed him as suffering from a form of genetic retroviral hyperplasia."

"Which is ridiculous," said Sterns.

Curt shot him a look, but Sterns only shrugged. "What? I may not be the right kind of doctor, but even I know that is not an accurate medical diagnosis."

"I understand it's not ideal language, but all of Oscorp has spent nearly twenty years using it to investigate Mr. Osborn's case."

"Ahh, well." Sterns rolled his eyes. "It's no wonder no one's cracked it."

Curt bristled while trying to look like he wasn't. "Sam. Please."

Fury glanced between the two of them. "Am I sensing some tension?"

Sterns shrugged again. "If Dr. Conners doesn't want my input on this one I'm perfectly willing to go back to working on Captain Blonsky," he said.

"Bruce is handling that, and for good reason."

"Is there something I should know?" Fury asked impatiently.

Curt took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I can explain later, Director Fury," he said. "Let's stay focused on Mr. Osborn for now."

Sterns felt heat in his ears; he was sick of being dismissed, but it was clear no one was about to be straight with him anytime soon. Maybe convincing Director Fury he knew what he was talking about would at least strengthen his position. "Yes, let's," he said. He turned to Fury. "Director Fury, are you familiar with retroviruses? Specifically, endogenous retroviruses?"

"I'm afraid not," said Fury, seemingly very willing to move on.

Sterns leaned his elbows against the table. "Retroviruses are very common," he began, determined to ignore Curt frowning beside him. "They invade the cells, they propagate their DNA—HIV, for example. But an endogenous retrovirus is already in the body, in the human genetic code. Eight percent of the human genetic code is made up of retroviruses that were assimilated into our DNA literally millions of years ago. They're non-active—they don't replicate. As far as modern science is concerned, their involvement in the daily function of the human body is at best limited to...to the production of some proteins, maybe. But! But." He couldn't help but wag his finger as if it would get the importance across. "There are some more recent studies into certain families of these retroviruses, which _are_ active. Not reproductively active, but they may be linked to illnesses and disabilities, like ALS and schizophrenia."

"And this is relevant, I'm assuming," Fury said.

"Well yes, it's—listen. That man in there." Sterns gestured toward the looking glass. "Norman Osborn. What's killing him is quite possibly the first actively replicating HERV in human history. It's remarkable, really—impossible, even. It's, let's be frank, it's about as bizarre, medically speaking, as the fact that he's been combating it by turning himself into a giant lizard-thing. That might even be why it's working, actually; because it's a billion year old dinosaur virus that's taken over his DNA!"

"A retrovirus," said Curt, "passed down through his family, which is causing his cells to replicate uncontrollably in areas of the body they're not supposed to be. Thus, genetic retroviral hyperplasia."

Sterns heaved a sigh. "Yes, yes. But putting it that way totally misrepresents what this...represents, with regards to medical science."

"But the language _is_ accurate."

"He's not a _fish_ swimming in bacteria-infested waters, Curt." Fury was watching them, unimpressed, so Sterns shifted his focus back. "Director Fury, this is unprecedented. We're talking about millions of years of evolution crafting the perfect genetic conditions for this virus to be reactivated. This is a family specific disease. It's the closest science has ever come to supporting the concept of fate."

Fury shook his head, though he looked like he was finally grasping the significance. "What you're saying is there's no saving him."

Sterns deflated somewhat. He glanced again to the viewing window. "No. No, there's nothing we can do short of rewriting his entire...existence, more or less. Which we could probably do, but not in the time he has left."

"We might be able to wake him up one last time," said Curt. His somber tone made Sterns feel guilty for his enthusiasm; he'd forgotten for a moment that their patient had been Curt's boss for over a decade. "But his nervous system is compromised, his internal organs are barely holding on. There's no benefit to giving him more of my formula now. He may only have hours left."

"I'll notify Oscorp." Fury paused, frowning deeply. "Doctors, let's be brutally honest here. Can you think of a compelling reason to not allow Oscorp access to Osborn's body after he's dead? There's no way they can make something of this 'dinosaur virus' of yours?"

"Just what do you believe Oscorp really is?" Curt asked, offended, but Sterns just shook his head.

"There's not really any mischief they can get up to with it," he said. "It's not contagious. Let them have it, by all means. Maybe they'll learn something about these HERVs that can be used to benefit human knowledge of our own DNA." He scoffed. "God knows you people aren't going to give it the academic attention it deserves."

Fury gave him a, _Don't fuck with me_ look that Sterns would haven't been surprised if it had been practiced in a mirror. "You're certain there's no way to pass this virus on to other people? I don't want Osborn's latest bioweapon on my hands."

"No, really. Like I said, it's very specific, genetically speaking. He's not giving it to anyone." Sterns shrugged. "I mean, unless he's got kids."

* * *

Harry Osborn was everything Sterns imaged him to be.

He came aboard the carrier with an entourage: lawyers, bureaucrats, security, all under the attentive eyes of Fury's agents. They were all dressed in suits that probably cost as much as Stern's yearly salary working at the university. Acting CEO Mr. Menkin looked especially soulless, like every other purse-holder Sterns had been ashamed to beg funding from. He made Stern's skin crawl.

Harry himself didn't look quite so dreadful. He was putting on a brave face, but there was no hiding the strain beneath, the harried irritation of someone heading into a dreaded encounter. Sterns had a lot of sympathy for him. His own father had had a similar effect on him, at that age.

"Harry," greeted Curt. He shook the young man's hand, then his companion's. "Mr. Menkin. I'm glad you could come. This is Dr. Samuel Sterns. He's been assisting on Mr. Osborn's case."

Sterns shook their hands, though he could see neither had any interest in him. He couldn't hold it against them. "Sorry I couldn't do more."

"So this is it?" asked Harry, trying so hard to look like he didn't give a damn. "He's dying?"

Curt winced sympathetically. "Yes, Harry, I'm afraid he doesn't have much time left. But he's conscious, and he's waiting for you." He motioned toward the far end of the lab, which had been cordoned off with curtains in a desperate attempt at privacy. "Please."

Curt led the way, his hand gentle on Harry's elbow. The rest followed except for Donald Menkin, who hung back just long enough to cast Sterns a strange look.

"Dr. Sterns, wasn't it?" he said. "You don't look like SHIELD staff."

Sterns shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "Thank you."

Menkin's lip quirked, though Sterns doubted he was even capable of real amusement. "May I ask how you came to be included on Mr. Osborn's case?" he got to the point.

Sterns didn't have much of a poker face, but he tried not to look interesting. "I was a patient who just happened to be on board," he said. "Dr. Connors asked me to assist."

Menkins continued to stare at him for a moment longer before turning to join his companions. "Well," he said. "Thank you for your efforts." Without waiting for a response he continued on.

_Great_, thought Sterns, frowning at his back. _Now Oscorp is gonna start a file on me. _

He kept himself busy as the Oscorp entourage completed their business. Security clearances prevented him from checking on Blonsky's status, but he was still able to access Hammer's files, and he read up as much as he could on the Expo and Manhattan incidents and what they speculated Hammer had exposed himself to. It was all fairly engrossing, and he almost didn't notice when, almost an hour later, Harry Osborn emerged from the curtains. His eyes were red but his back straight and gait unfaltering as he put the cloth tomb behind him. Sterns watched for a moment. The rest of the men exited as well, but they stayed close together, talking with Curt in hushed tones about how to best preserve and transport the body. They didn't seem to pay Harry much notice as he retreated to the opposite end of the lab.

Sterns followed. He felt compelled to, though he didn't realize at first why. But as he came up on Harry's left and saw the resentment and fear in his scrubbed-dry eyes, he suddenly knew. "Harry," he said. "They told you, didn't they?"

Harry didn't look at him. "You mean, did they tell me what killed him?" he said bitterly. "Did they tell me I'm dying, too?"

Stern winced; molecular biologists had no real need to develop bedside manner, and he knew he wasn't equipped to offer words of comfort. He glanced behind him—Curt had spotted them, and it looked like he was trying to disengage from Menkin in order to get over to them. He only had a moment to speak his mind.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Sterns said, "but the folks you've got working over at Oscorp are a bunch of dickwads." Harry finally looked at him. "Now that Curt's not there anymore, anyway. From what I can tell, they treated your dad for twenty years and still won't acknowledge what they're up against. If you want to beat this thing, you can't rely on just them."

Harry stared at him, somewhere between incredulous and angry. "My father _just_ died," he said. "And you're applying for a job?"

It was a terrible reaction, but Sterns couldn't help but snort. "No no, no, I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."

"Sam?" Curt was on his way over, Menkin and the rest in tow.

Sterns pretended not to hear. "What I mean," he continued urgently, "is that I've seen some crazy things the last few days, and I know for sure that there _is_ a way to beat it. There is, all right? So if at any point one of those dickwads tells you they've done everything they can, come see me."

Curt finally reached them, and he touched Sterns' shoulder. "Is everything all right here?" he asked.

Sterns took a step back. Harry didn't look terribly convinced by him, but he had done his best. "I'm Sam Sterns," he introduced himself again. "I work at Empire State University. And, uh." He extended his hand. "You have my condolences."

Harry glanced to the hand, looking for a moment that he had no intention of accepting, but at last he shook it. "Thanks," he muttered, and with a nod to his comrades, they left.

Curt waited until SHIELD had escorted them out of the room to ask, "What were you two talking about?"

"Nothing, really." Sterns shrugged. "We'd better get a good night's sleep," he said, "since we start on the big guy tomorrow."

* * *

Early the next morning, Sterns, Curt, and their assigned workers stood around the great glass tube holding Justin Hammer, watching as a pale blue serum was pumped into his veins.

Unlike with Blonksy, they didn't notice any reaction straight away. For the first ninety seconds Hammer didn't so much as twitch. Then, without warning, his boney arm shot out and struck the glass with a force that rattled the entire chamber. His legs began to kick and thrash, and his clawed hands raked the inside of his prison. The techs started to panic, but Curt talked them down, waving everyone back until, after another ninety seconds, Hammer's struggles grew weak and finally subsided.

Sterns stayed at his console, watching the readings from Hammer's brain scan. He shook his head. "That wasn't him regaining consciousness," he said as everyone else moved around, making sure the tubes and sensors were still connected to their patient. "In case you were wondering."

Once they were sure that Hammer was secure, Curt came over. "It doesn't look like that had any effect on his mutation," he said. "Not even on his musculature beneath the armor. We might have to start over from scratch."

"You're sure we don't have anything on the serum he injected himself with?" Sterns asked. "A sample, a formula? Anything?"

"Nothing. Hammer made sure to delete any record of how it was made before he went on the run." He sighed. "Bruce suspected that the vita-rays may have stabilized the mutation too well to be reversible. It's as if his own cells don't remember what they used to be."

"Or they're happier this way," said Sterns. He called up their counter agent. "There are still some things we can try. I'm not giving up yet."

By the time they were ready for the next test, Bruce had arrived. "Blonsky is stable," he told them, looking relieved. "Or at least, as stable as he'll ever be. Fury thinks they're ready to move him to The Fridge."

"The Fridge," Sterns repeated. "That sounds ominous."

"It's a containment facility," Curt explained. "For people who require more security than your average inmate." He turned to Bruce. "So, did you actually find a way to suppress the mutation?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, but we did figure out a cocktail that worked. He and I were even able to have a conversation without him becoming agitated. It'll be enough to keep him manageable at The Fridge."

Sterns chewed his lip. He knew better than to push it, but then he did anyway. "Manageable," he said. "So you drugged him into vegetable status after all."

"He's not a vegetable," Bruce said quickly. "He's...mellow. Very mellow." When Sterns continued to stare at him, he sighed. "I understand how you feel, Sam, I really do. I didn't want this for him, either. But this is the best we can do—if there's no curing him, managing him is our only option."

"No, I—I get it." Sterns gave his face a rub and then turned back to his console. "I get it. Let's just focus on Hammer, since 'mellow' isn't even an option for him right now."

They tried again. They pumped the revised serum into Hammer's veins, they watched him writhe and struggle, and then nothing. Not one bony plate gave way and his brain activity never changed.

"He's too far gone," said Curt. "We don't have any way of getting around this thing. If we push it any further it's only going to do more harm than good."

"We still have time," said Sam, not looking up from his readings. "If we just had more time, I know we could find something."

"To what end?" This time it was Bruce at his shoulder. "Even if we did the impossible and made him a conscious, functioning human being again, he would only be going back to prison. That is literally the last thing he wanted."

Sam shook his head, over and over. "You don't know that—you don't know what he'd want."

"Sam, we're talking about a man who was willing to choose death over jail time. If he spends the rest of his life peacefully asleep—"

But Sam kept shaking his head. "You're only saying that because he tried to kill you."

Bruce sighed in exasperation. "You say that as if it's not relevant to—"

"It's not!" Sam whirled around, and he must have looked rather wild then, because Bruce and Curt both took a step back. "It doesn't matter what he did before!" Sam shouted at them, his every edge frayed. "It doesn't matter what _you_ think he wants—it doesn't even matter what he _actually_ wants! Who cares if he goes to prison? Just look at him, for—for Christ's sake, both of you. Look at what he is!" He waved emphatically at the tube as their assistants and techs around the room each turned to stare. When no one seemed to understand what he meant, he moved closer and smacked his hand against the glass.

"_Look_ at what he _is_," he insisted. "Does this bone structure exist in nature? No! No, of course it doesn't! This man is a miracle, don't you understand? Look!" He hurried to the nearest console and called up Hammer's background reports, scrolling through photos and news clips, coming to rest on a doctored photograph of Justin Hammer and Tony Stark. "Justin Hammer tried his entire career to be Stark, isn't that right? Didn't you tell me that yourself earlier, Bruce? But he couldn't, and he couldn't, and then he injected himself with this—this stuff." Caught up in his own fever, he gestured along. "And look what he became. It's a fricking Iron Man suit made out of _human bone._ Don't you understand?"

Everyone stared at him. The techs were confused and curious, but Bruce and Curt's expressions were more along the lines of grim and patronizingly sympathetic. Sterns came back to them, grabbing Bruce's shoulder, who tensed beneath his heavy grip. With a deep breath he was able to lower his voice once more.

"We're talking about willful, conscious mutation," he said with all due gravity. "He injected himself with a witch's brew of terrible things that by all rights should have _killed him_. But he didn't just survive it—he _tamed_ it. It made him _exactly_ what he wanted all along. Not an out of control rage monster, not a dinosaur dying of dino-virus, but a powerful, literally-man-made robot. This thing they made by accident could be the key that unlocks all of evolution. Think of the things people could become, forged out of their own will and imagination. It's incredible! It's world-changing! Can't you imagine it?"

"I can," Bruce said, but his face was still unmovably grim. He gently peeled Sterns' hands from his shoulders. "I have imagined it. And it terrifies me."

Sterns gaped back at him, speechless, so Bruce continued. "Sam, you are brilliant," he said. "And you helped me when no one else would or could—I'll never forget that. But you're not thinking about the broader consequences of what we're doing here. What happened to these men made them incredibly dangerous; I don't want to know what Hammer injected himself with. I don't want to ever see it used again. I want him to never hurt anyone else, and if we can't do that by curing him..."

He gave Sterns' hands a squeeze and then let him go. "I'm going to tell Fury we're done. They can pack Hammer up for deep storage."

"Wait." When Bruce started to walk away, Sterns reached after him, but was intercepted by Curt. "Wait, you can't do that," he said, but he suddenly felt light-headed, and Curt was more than enough to keep him back. "You can't—he's a human being, for Christ's sake, an American citizen! You can't just bury him alive!"

"Sam," Curt said gently, holding him steady. "Sam, there's nothing else we can do for him. It's better this way."

"Better?" Sterns finally shook Curt off, but by then Bruce was gone. Everyone else in the lab was staring at him. Their eyes were bright with lab lights, and when they turned to each other, his ears buzzed with their whispers. None of them understood. He could almost see the gossip passing between them like neurotransmitters and he was the one dead cell cut adrift. He didn't belong with them. Even Curt by his side suddenly felt like a stranger.

"I'm really disappointed with you," he said to Curt, a sick feeling in his stomach. "You, and Bruce, and everyone this room that claims to give one shit about science, about knowledge, about—"

A hand took his shoulder from behind. He tried to spin about, but he was unsteady of his feet, and the newcomer had to steady him. It was one of Fury's agents, a bald man with glasses that Sterns had only half noticed at the edges of their proceedings. "Dr. Sterns," he said calmly. "Why don't I take you back to your room?" He looked past Sterns. "You don't mind, do you, Dr. Connors?"

Curt let his breath out in a long sigh. "Thank you, Jasper. I think that's best."

Sterns wanted to retort that Curt had no right to judge anything, but everyone's increasingly pity-filled stares were wearing him down. With only a shake of his head he allowed the agent to steer him out of the lab. Goosebumps prickled his skin and his mind was swimming in his skull, clammy with disgust and frustration. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home—his real life had never seemed so far away.

"Dr. Sterns," said the agent, "my name is Jasper Sitwell. I heard what you were saying in there."

Sterns didn't even have the strength to roll his eyes. "That's...ok. So?"

Another pair of agents passed them going the other way, and Sitwell waited until they were out of range to continue. "You were right," he said, in a more conspiratorial tone. "From the start, Fury never had any intention of letting the three of them go. This wasn't about helping them or learning anything—it was just about making it easier to get rid of them."

Sterns straightened up, paying much closer attention. They entered the connecting hallway toward Sterns' quarters. "Well. He got his wish, then. One's dead, one's prison-sized, and the other is going into the ground, like he wanted." He snorted. "Some help I was."

They reached Sterns' room, and he was expecting to be dropped off, but then Sitwell came in with him. "I've been assigned to Hammer's case all along," Sitwell told him. "I'll be on the detail that transfers him, when the time comes. It'll probably be sometime tonight." He hesitated a moment. "I think you should be there."

Sterns tossed his lab coat onto chair. "Why? You want me to have an up close look at the coffin they put him in?" He shook his head emphatically. "Greatest advancement in my field in twenty years and they're flushing it down the toilet. Fucking cowards."

Sitwell touched his shoulder again. Sterns was getting sick of it, and he almost shoved the hand off, but he stopped when he saw the man's face. "Dr. Sterns," said Sitwell evenly, "I want you to be there."

Sterns wasn't one for secret messages, but something in Sitwell's focus tightened a knot in his chest with understanding. His heart beat a little faster and cast some of the fog out of his weary brain. At the time he didn't really understand anything, couldn't even guess what Sitwell's intentions were, but the hint of opportunity won him over. Almost involuntarily, he nodded.

"All right." Sterns nudged the hand from his shoulder and then clasped it tight. "Just tell me when and where."

* * *

Curt stood in front of Hammer's chamber, shoulders slack as he watched the unfortunate beast sleep on. He thought of how easily it could have been him in such a state, how relieved he was that he wasn't, how guilty he felt in his own relief. But there wasn't any point in dwelling on fate and they had only one path forward.

"There was never anything we could have done for him," said Bruce next to him. "The vita-ray chamber resonated too well with his mutation for it to ever be reversed. At least he's not aware of what's happened to him."

Curt stared a moment longer. "Do you think we should have told Sam the truth?" he asked.

"No," Bruce said immediately. "If he knew, he'd try to repeat it. His curiosity has always been stronger than his judgment." He faced Curt seriously. "Please, Curt, don't say anything to him."

"I wasn't going to, I just..." He sighed. "He was right. I'm disappointed in us, too."

Bruce took his time replying. "We did the best we could," he said, convincing himself. "Maybe we could have done more with more time, more money and equipment, but...it's not our fault SHIELD's given up on them."

"The golden rule," Curt agreed.

Bruce took a step back. "Come on—let's get him ready."

They turned away, busying themselves with preparations for the transfer.


	3. Chapter 3

**66 Weeks of Aftermath**

Chapter 3: The Death of Norman Osborn

* * *

Norman Osborne passed away in his home, March 19th, 2013, after a drawn out battle with lung cancer.

At least, that was what the news was reporting. Peter had already gotten the call from Bruce three days earlier with the bare details of Osborn's unusual passing. He hadn't known how to take the news then, and still didn't, watching from a café television as the anchorman spin a dignified lie of Norman Osborn's rich life and contributions to his field. The news buzzed in his chest, and he wanted to retreat to the rooftops for air and freedom and an empty mind.

If Norman Osborn was dead, the truth was dead with him.

His cell phone rang, and Peter knew instantly who it was. He answered. "Hey, Aunt May."

"Peter." She sound cautiously sympathetic, and he appreciated how well she knew him. "I just saw on the news, about Mr. Osborn."

"Yeah." Peter gathered up his book bag and camera case; he didn't feel like finishing his coffee and there was no reason to stick around. "It's weird, huh? It's been so long since…. I guess he finally ran out of time."

"Are you all right?" May asked gently. "I know you were hoping…"

Peter winced as he tossed his cup in the trash. "No, it's all right. I'm all right. It's probably better this way." He ran a hand back through his hair as if it would help get his thoughts in order. "I already know what he did. I don't think getting him to admit it would have really made me feel better."

"I'm on shift now, but if you want to come over—"

"No, I'm really fine, Aunt May." Peter headed for the door. "Maybe when Bruce gets back from the Helicarrier he'll have something to tell me. But if not…it's okay. I'll see you Friday for dinner, right? We can talk then."

"Of course." May made a quiet, sympathetic sound. "The poor thing. He looks so tired."

"Huh?" Peter glanced back to the television; the news was showing clips from some earlier interview with the newly appointed CEO of Oscorp, Harry Osborn.

Peter stopped. The last time he had seen Harry Osborn, it had been in a click-bait ad on an internet news site almost a year ago. _Harry Osborn refuses to comment on Oscorp crisis_, it had said. He'd tried not to think too deeply on it then, wrapped up in the aftermath of Hammer's rampage. But Aunt May was right; beneath the expensive suit and manicured hair Peter's childhood friend looked _exhausted_.

"I remember when he came to your birthday party, when you turned seven," Aunt May was saying. "Didn't he give you a telescope? Whatever happened to that thing?"

"I..." Someone bumped Peter's shoulder, reminding him that he was standing right in front of the door. With a shake of his head he finally made it outside. "I don't know," he admitted. "I can't remember the last time I saw it." He turned down the sidewalk and then suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. "I kind of feel like a dick now. I've just been thinking about Osborn getting what he deserved, but Harry...he just lost his dad."

"Peter," said Aunt May, "don't be hard on yourself. Death can be complicated."

"Yeah..." Peter took a deep breath. "Aunt May, I gotta go. But I'll check in later, okay? Thanks for calling."

"I'm always here, if you need to talk," said May. "I love you, Peter."

"I love you, too."

Peter hung up and tucked his phone away. He looked up and down the sidewalk and still didn't know what to do. It had been years since he'd spared a serious thought for Harry Osborn, and suddenly he couldn't stop thinking about him: Harry being dropped off at his seventh birthday party in a limousine; Harry skinning his knees to bleeding when they dared each other to jump from the schoolyard fence; Harry crammed in a corner of his room, speed-reading reading comic books he knew his father wouldn't approve of, while Peter finished their science project.

Harry huddled next to him in corner of the school yard, when Peter didn't want the other kids to see him cry.

_He probably doesn't even remember me,_ Peter thought as he stared up at the Oscorp sign just visible through the gaps in the morning skyline. _I can't even remember the last time I saw him. It must have been at school, sometime after…._ Before he knew it, his feet were carrying him forward. _His dad wouldn't let him see me after that. I guess it makes sense now, why. But it's not like that's Harry's fault. _He started faster. _He never got along with his dad anyway. But now that Osborn's dead…._

Peter ducked into an alley in search of a swing-able shortcut. _He probably doesn't even remember me_, he thought again, but he kept going anyway, all the way to the Oscorp building.

* * *

"Harry?"

Harry watched the city from on high. He watched the tiny tin cars cram around each other in the streets far below, watched the shadows of planes moving across the buildings and sunlight glint off water in the distance. He remembered when he was a kid, pressed up against the glass in his father's office—and then leaning back, imitating his father's indifferent posture. At the time, he thought it was what a king must have felt like, surveying his empire with casual authority. What a laugh.

Donald Menken came up behind him, and after waiting for a moment to be noticed without success, he touched Harry's shoulder. "Harry," he said again.

"Lung cancer," said Harry. "That's really the best we could come up with."

Menken sighed. "Harry, you can't just leave in the middle of a board meeting."

"I understand why we couldn't tell everyone the truth," Harry went on. "Hard to show them one hand and not the other. And of course if it got out that I was—"

"We can talk about all that, but everyone is waiting—"

"We were finished," Harry interrupted. "I get how this works, you know. I'm sure you and your friends in there were able to get up to all manner of interesting side projects while my dad was busy dying. And you figured that now junior is back in town, you'd all be on babysitting duty." He turned away from the window. "I am not going to sit at that table while you all insult my intelligence by lying to me. Dear old dad told me what you've been up to. If you're not prepared to include me, I don't see why I should waste my time pretending any one of you matter to me in the slightest."

Menken fixed him with a look that probably instilled fear in the people that worked for him; not so much in Harry's case. "Harry—"

"Mr. Osborn," Harry reminded him icily.

Menken's smile was so forced Harry wouldn't have been surprised if it turned his teeth to diamonds. "Mr. Osborn, how can I include you when you don't attend the board meetings?"

Harry scoffed. "Please, Donald, we both know that if what really goes on around here made it into that conference room, there wouldn't _be_ an Oscorp." He took a step back. "I want you to go back in there," he said, "and tell everyone that their homework assignment is to go to their offices, and decide for themselves if they want to keep their secrets, or keep their jobs." He gestured helplessly. "Because they really can't do both anymore."

"Har—" Menken caught himself, his face screwing up. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said, and when Harry turned to head for the door, he followed. "Just what exactly do you expect they have to tell you that you don't know? Your father gave you access to the books already."

"Yes, he did." Harry didn't look back. "Which is why they had better fess up sooner than later."

He could hear Menken readying more, but then the office door opened, and his brand new assistant, Felicia, stuck her head in. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Osborn," she said. "But you have a visitor."

"It can wait," Menken said immediately. "This business is more important."

To her credit, Felicia was undeterred, and she focused entirely on Harry. "It's a personal visitor, sir. He's waiting now in the foyer."

Harry smiled; Felicia was getting a raise. "Thank you, Felicia. I'll head there now." He flashed Menken a jagged grin over his shoulder. "It's really something, isn't it?" he said. "A skyscraper with a _foyer_ on the seventieth floor."

Menken's lips were pursed with dissatisfaction; it took him a moment to work the words up. "You don't know what you're really dealing with," he warned. "_Who_ you're dealing with."

Harry's smile hardened. "I will soon," he promised, and with that he left Menken steaming in his wake.

Felicity led the way to the elevator. "Is there really someone down there?" Harry asked, not that he particularly cared. He was willing to tear into just about anyone. "Or was that just to rescue me?"

"You really do have a visitor," said Felicity, "He didn't have an appointment, but his timing was convenient, so I thought..."

"Good." Harry nodded as the elevator carried them down. "For the record, you have my permission to lie to Mr. Menken as much as necessary. Use your judgment."

Felicity tried to smirk and remain professional at the same time. "Yes, sir."

The elevator stopped, and Harry stepped out, bracing himself for whatever was to come. He couldn't imagine what "personal visitor" even meant, let alone who it could be. All he had left were competitors and adversaries, within and without, and one ally whose salary he paid. Anyone else couldn't be worth the time.

But then Harry reached the top of the foyer's small staircase, and his first glimpse of the timely intruder made his heart skip. He stopped, all sensible thoughts out of his head beneath uncertain but hopeful eyes. He took a breath. "Peter Parker...?"

Peter grinned with relief. "Harry Osborn."

* * *

"I can't believe it," Harry said, bright with humor, as they made their way down the riverside. "I come back after all this time, and you are working for _the enemy_."

Peter laughed. "Stark isn't 'the enemy,' Harry, he's pretty much exactly the opposite. Don't they get the news over in Paris? Or were you too busy dating supermodels to notice he saved the President not that long ago?"

"I was very busy with the supermodels," Harry assured him. "You have no idea, Pete. They're _exhausting_. I'm so over that now."

"Oh, yeah, poor you. I can't imagine what those terrible supermodels put you through."

They continued to laugh at each other as they reached the water, leaning up against the rails like the kids they had been when they last met. Peter was alight with a feeling like awe; he had expected a short and awkward exchange, an offer of empathy the newly crowned Harry Osborn wouldn't deign to accept. He was very happy to have been proven wrong.

"Seriously, though," said Harry, "you should come work for me. Whatever Stark is paying you, I can double it."

Peter let his arms dangle over the railing and hoped he wasn't blushing. "It's not about the money."

"Triple, then." Harry leaned his back to the rail and edged closer. "Come on, isn't that what we always talked about as kids? I could even give you your dad's old lab, if you wanted. Might burn Menken real good, but who cares, fuck him."

"That's…." The thought hadn't even occurred to Peter before, and he didn't like it. "No. I mean, thanks, but….that's kind of the reason I can't. You know?"

Harry nodded soberly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Sorry." He shrugged. "It just would have been nice, having someone in that damn tower that isn't waiting to stick a knife in my back."

Peter winced with sympathy. "Not making it easy on you, are they?"

"Not even a little bit." Harry scuffed his show on the path. "I was tempted to fire every one of them and start over. But I guess it's not totally their faults." He shook his head. "Seeing as my old man set such a good example for them."

Peter frowned. _Aunt May was right_, he thought, watching Harry sink into his shoulders. _He looks so tired._ But he didn't know what he had to offer, so he said, "Do it. Hire in your supermodels."

It seemed to do the trick in the temporary at least; the light came back into Harry's eyes as he laughed. "If they get their masters, I will get over being over them real fast," he said.

"Some of them might be on their way already," Peter pointed out. "You never know."

"Yeah. But what about you?" Harry turned to face him better. "You're working for Stark; you must be doing pretty well for yourself. You got a girlfriend or something?"

Peter tried not to wince. It occurred to him all over again that after so many years apart he didn't really know Harry at all, or at least, couldn't necessarily predict any of Harry's reactions to the many startling facts surrounding his significant other. "Actually..." He hemmed, leaning back with his hands still on the rail. But he didn't want to lie; not about Bruce. "I have a boyfriend."

Harry's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Yeah." Peter tensed the longer Harry stared at him, at a loss to interpret his suddenly very attentive expression. "For almost a year, now."

"Wow," said Harry, and Peter waited anxiously, but then Harry grinned. "Is he hot?"

Peter wilted with relief. "Oh yeah," he said. "He's, well." He blushed. "He's incredible."

"A year, though, man. I can't even imagine being with one person that long." Harry's grin turned mischievous. "The sex must be pretty good, then."

"Ah..." Peter sputtered as heat spread to his ears. "It's..." He rocked back and forth and finally said, "It's out of this world."

"Well, damn, I want to meet him."

"Well he's..." Peter squirmed back and forth; emboldened by Harry's reaction he was aching to spill it all, but he could already imagine Bruce's disapproving frown. "He's very private," Peter said carefully. "And, well, he's older." Seeing Harry's face, he quickly amended. "Not, like, _that_ old, but, you know, older. And he works at the tower—we could get in trouble if people knew. And you're _Harry Osborn_, I don't think he'd be okay with…."

He trailed off, cringing through a smile, as Harry continued to give him a doubtful look. But then Harry's eyes lit up. "Are you fucking Tony Stark?"

Peter almost heaved himself over the railing. "What? No!"

"Because that would sure explain a lot," Harry went on, so animated that Peter couldn't tell if he was joking. "About you _and_ him. You know, I always wondered—"

"No," Peter said emphatically. "No, no, come on, I'm not—"

"Seriously though, Pete, if you need a sugar daddy that badly I can set you up."

"Harry, that's not what—"

"I said triple, didn't I?"

There was a twinkle in his grin that had Peter's head spinning. "It's not like that," Peter said firmly. "His name is Bruce." He caught himself before he could say more. "And that's all I'm telling you, at least until I've asked him about it. Since I'm _not_ sleeping with Mr. Stark, I don't know that I could smooth over introducing the head of Oscorp to one of his top researchers."

"_You_ work for Stark, too," Harry pointed out, and though he was still smiling he wasn't teasing anymore. "Won'tyou get in trouble, just by being here?"

"Maybe." Peter shrugged. "Not as long as he doesn't find out, I guess."

"Well," said Harry, leaning his back against the rail again. "I'm still going to pretend you're screwing Tony Stark until I meet this 'Bruce' of yours." He watched Peter closely while trying to look like he wasn't. "Assuming you and I even meet again after this."

Peter didn't even have time to think about the answer before it was out of him. "Of course." He turned toward Harry and pulled out his cell phone. "You got a number I can reach you at?"

Harry accepted the phone and entered himself as a contact. "I should probably get back before Menken sends security after me," he joked as he sent himself a text, but then he immediately became more serious. "But thanks, for coming over. I'm glad I got to see you."

"Yeah." Peter gave a lopsided smile. "I honestly didn't think you'd even remember me. But I'm glad, that you're…that we're cool. If you ever need someone to talk to…."

"Thanks." Harry handed the phone back. He was quiet for a moment, debating with himself, and even without knowing what was on his mind Peter felt a pang of sympathy. "I can't get into it right now," he said. "But I'll probably take you up on that."

"Sure, man." Peter offered his hand. "Anytime."

Harry shook it. His grip was tight, almost desperate, and then he was tugging Peter closer. But he only stayed for a moment, his arm just as tight around Peter's shoulders, before he let go. "Thanks," he said again, backing away. "Stay in touch, okay?"

"Yeah, I will." Peter stepped back, too, though reluctantly. He hated to leave when Harry still looked so full of things to say. "Give'm hell back there, Harry."

Harry flashed a grin. "Always," he said, and then he turned away, reaching for his phone.

Peter leaned back against the rail as he watched Harry leave, tension in his chest. _Osborn was an asshole, but he was still Harry's dad_, he thought, and he found himself pulling his own phone out. _And now Harry has to clean up after him. Must be tough…._

He tapped to his contacts and hit send almost without thinking. The other end rang twice before it was answered. "Peter?"

"Hey, Bruce." Peter sagged against his elbows. "When are you coming home?"

* * *

When Harry returned to the Oscorp building, he didn't visit the boardroom; he headed straight to his suite on the upper levels and told Felicia not to accept any visitors. Not that Menken expected any differently. He had known for a long time what was coming.

"We all knew he would end up just like Norman," he said, leaning back in his office chair. "Arrogant, stubborn. Desperate. Except he doesn't have his father's mind—he barely has a degree. The board will be pushing for him to step down within the year, I'm sure of it. There are plenty of places we can put him, if need be."

"Cut him some slack," said the man on the other end. "He's a teenager. His old man is dead and all he has left in this cruel world is a billion dollar empire and a death sentence. He is moldable right now. If you play your hand right, he could be eating out of it, you get me?"

Menken shook his head. "He's not taking anything from me. You don't know these Osborns, John."

"Well, maybe I should. I'll straighten the little punk out for you. It's all just a matter of motivation, you know." He chuckled. "Better yet, I'll send Raina. She is a _doll_, Donny. She'll have him recruited in no time."

"Recruited?" Menken frowned. "You really think that's even necessary? We can have him buried before things get…interesting."

"So you say, but our schedule is moving up and up all the time. It's coming sooner than you think."

"Really? _How_ soon?" Menken's neck prickled with goose bumps as an alert popped up on his screen; the surveillance team he'd sent after Harry had filed their report. "I thought the Mandarin incident set you back."

"On the contrary—we are full speed ahead," said Garret with exuberance. "Top brass thinks all we need is one little push to get the final gears in place. You are gonna love the light show, buddy, I guarantee it."

Menken smirked despite himself. "I'm looking forward to it," he said, calling up the report. He watched footage of Harry crossing the street with a lanky teenager. "As long as we still have the protection you promised us."

"As long as _you_ have what _I_ was promised," said Garret with sudden venom. "For the Centipede program."

"I can't give you what I don't have." Menken scrolled through security's summary of Harry's conversation with his visitor. "We've taken the building apart—it's not here. Like I told you before, there's nothing left of that formula. I'm not even sure why you would want it, considering how unstable was."

Garret grumbled irritably. "Then you're going to have to think of something else to trade, old friend."

Menken scrolled back to the top of his report; the name of Harry's guest finally registered with him. "Peter Parker?" he muttered.

"Hm? Someone I should know?"

"No, sorry. It's no one. Just something I thought we'd already taken care of." Menken closed the file and leaned back again. "I can't get you that formula, but I can lend you one of the researchers here that helped make it," he said. "Dr. Debbie Glassen. She has some bold ideas that I think will interest you."

"Can't wait to meet her. But listen, Donny." Garret lowered his voice in that lethally friendly way peculiar to him. "Get your kid settled, all right? Either bring him in, or take him out. We don't go halfway around here, know what I mean?"

"Oh yes, I know," said Menken. "It'll be taken care of."

"That's what I like to hear. You have yourself a good day, Donny. I'll be in touch."

"Same."

Menken hung up just as a security officer appeared at his door. He waved him in. "Good work out there," he said. "This is going to be your job from now on, understand? Harry goes nowhere and talks to no one without me knowing about it. Do you understand?"

The officer straightened up and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Especially the Parker kid," Menken added. "I doubt there's any harm he can do now, but we can't risk it, not at this stage. Keep an eye out for him."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He dismissed the man and then turned back to his computer, calling up the Parker file. It might have been easier to eliminate the boy after all and be done with it, but with Harry around he would have to be careful, at least until he knew for sure what he was really capable of, and how much like his father he really was.

* * *

Peter was stretched out on Bruce's couch, studying for incoming finals, when JARVIS reported that a helicopter was landing at the tower. He bounded up the stairs and all but flew to the helipad, just in time to welcome Bruce as he disembarked. He managed to restrain himself until they were inside, the helicopter pulling away, before he pounced with long-awaited kiss.

Bruce dropped his bag and wrapped Peter up, arms tight and almost needy around his waist as he kissed him back. His little mumbles of pleasure sounded exhausted. "Mmn, I've missed you," he said.

"Oh hey, I know that feeling," Peter teased back, and he kissed Bruce again. "You look tired. It's a little late, but should we order up some dinner?"

"Let's just go downstairs," said Bruce, though he seemed reluctant to let go. "Whatever's left in the fridge will be fine."

"Oh, yeah!" Peter kissed him one last time and then pulled back. He grabbed up Bruce's duffel and kept a tight hold on Bruce's hand as he led them across the penthouse. "There's some leftover meatballs, from this great Korean place Gwen and I had dinner at last night. They're amazing—you're gonna love'em. And you can tell me all about how it went."

Bruce made a slight face as they reached the elevator, looking around. "No Tony or Pepper?"

"Naw—they're in Geneva or something," Peter said. He pulled them into the elevator. "Took off not long after you did. It's been quiet, with everyone gone." He tried not to let too much sentiment creep into his voice. "Gwen's leaving, too. She qualified for a scholarship to Oxford—molecular medicine. Isn't that nuts?"

"That's fantastic," said Bruce, though with sympathy. "Good for her."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm proud of her." But when Peter looked at Bruce, he couldn't keep it up. "I'm gonna miss her."

"Of course."

They got off together, and Peter dropped Bruce's bag off by the sofa on his way to the kitchen. "You haven't missed much around here," he said as he dug into the fridge for leftovers. "Campus is pretty nuts right now, with finals coming up. I _think_ I'm on top of it..." He laughed as he emptied the meatballs into a pan to reheat them properly. "Kinda ridiculous, to be nervous about school finals after everything I've already been through. When Professor Sloan started going over what we'd need to know for the exam, I almost swung out the window. It's gonna be brutal."

"You'll be fine," Bruce assured him. He pulled a pair of mugs out of the cupboard and started heating water for tea. "And I'll help you study. The lab can do without me a while longer."

Peter beamed gratefully. "I was hoping you'd say that."

They ate the leftovers together, idly chatting about Peter's classes and the few hero antics he'd gotten up to during Bruce's stint on the Helicarrier. It wasn't until they had finished and were curled up on the couch together that Bruce finally surrendered the details of his visit. "It didn't really work out as well as I had hoped," he admitted, nestled against the arm rest with Peter half draped over him. "In the end, we weren't able to fully reverse any of their mutations. But Blonsky and Hammer have been secured, and Osborn..."

His wince answered every question Peter could have asked. "You couldn't get him to talk, huh?" Peter asked anyway.

"No." Bruce's hand tightened against the small of Peter's back. "I'm sorry. It was too risky to wake him up, until the end, and...it was important to Curt that he spend those last moments with his son."

Peter went tight with a rush of cold. "Harry was there?"

"Yes, so I heard. I wasn't around for it." He sighed. "Apparently it didn't go so well. They must have broken the news to the public by now, huh? He's probably having an even harder time of it."

"Yeah…." Peter squirmed, debating, and finally pushed up on his elbow so he could see Bruce's reaction. "I met him today."

Bruce blinked in confusion. "Met who?" His brow furrowed. "You met Harry Osborn?"

"Yeah. It's…." Peter wished suddenly that he'd kept his head down; he had no idea what his own face was doing. "It's kind of funny, actually. He and I used to be friends, when we were kids. So I went to see him."

"You went to Oscorp," said Bruce, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Peter's shirt.

"Yeah, but it was fine." When Bruce continued to watch him with mounting concern, he sat up, leaning into the sofa back. "Don't look at me like that—I was careful. I just wanted to know how he was doing, you know, since…I know what he's going through."

Bruce looked like he was going to protest some more, but then he gave up, rubbing his eyes. "Why haven't you ever told me this before?"

"Because it never came up?" Peter said honestly. "I haven't seen him in eight years—he's been a world away. I practically forgot him for a while. And besides…" He didn't want to say it, but the words came out anyway. "His dad probably murdered my parents. I didn't _want_ to remember him. But...when I saw him on the news, I just wanted to know he was all right."

He peeked at Bruce's face again, expecting scorn, but what he found was a kind of weary fondness. "You're too good for your own good, Peter," he said quietly.

Peter gave a wry smile, and when Bruce beckoned him back down, he complied, stretching out over his chest again. "We went to the same school growing up," Peter said, remembering flashes of those childish days. "Neither of us really had friends, so we always ended up together when it was time to pair up. Then we started hanging out." He grinned with the memory. "He used to say that because my dad worked for his, that meant I worked for him, too."

Bruce scoffed. "That's kind of terrible."

"Yeah," Peter said, laughing. "Yeah, but I really didn't mind. It was better than eating lunch alone every day. And I could tell he was just saying it because he wanted me to stick around." He sighed into Bruce's collar. "We were the biggest dorks."

He waited for Bruce to correct his use of past tense; instead, Bruce suddenly let out a sharp breath. "Shit."

"Hm? What is it?"

Bruce scrubbed at his face again, grumbling unintelligibly to himself. "I know something you should know," he surrendered. "But I don't know if I have the right to tell you, not if Harry didn't already tell you himself."

Peter definitely didn't like the sound of that. Propriety was nowhere near his realm of thought. "Tell me."

It took Bruce a moment longer to work up to it. "Peter, I'm sorry, but...the disease that killed Norman Osborn..."

Peter's heart sank into his stomach. He fell still against Bruce's chest and could have sworn he felt Harry's arm tight around his shoulders. "He's dying?"

"I don't know yet if he's shown any symptoms," Bruce said gently, rubbing Peter's back. "According to Curt, Norman didn't until he was in his mid-twenties. And even then, Norman lived for another thirty years. But it is likely to present eventually. I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter tried to take it in, but his thoughts kept tying themselves in knots. _That's not fair._ He clenched his jaw tight. _After all this time, I didn't even think he'd remember me. A week ago I barely remembered myself. And now he's dying?_ "But Oscorp is working on it, right?" he asked. "They must have learned _something_ from treating his dad all those years. They'll figure out a way to help him."

"They do have a billion dollars to throw at it," said Bruce. "And Curt kept data from everything he could. He told me he plans to continue working on it." He tapped at Peter's shoulders. "Hey, that's the good news. With the Helicarrier being decommissioned, Curt's 'sentence' is up. They're transferring him to The Cube, to be the new head of their bio-research division."

"The Cube?" Peter perked up a little. "Isn't that the base here in Manhattan?"

"Fury said it used to be SHIELD Central, once upon a time," Bruce affirmed. "It's just a side base now, more of a waypoint for agents. But their science level is going to be all Curt's to play with. We're practically neighbors." He smiled against Peter's forehead. "And because The Cube doesn't come with quarters, they're allowing Curt off-site housing. He'll still have to keep his head down so the media doesn't catch wind, but he's getting an apartment for him and his family."

"His family..." Peter's head was still spinning, but the news was very welcome. "That's great," he said. "I'm glad. I'm really glad, for him."

"Yeah." Bruce was quiet for a moment, and then he gave Peter a little nudge. "He's going to keep working on the Osborn case, as much as he can," he said. "And I think Sam is, too." He sighed. "Whether or not he ever speaks to either of us again."

"Sam," Peter echoed. He pushed up on his elbows again. "You mean, the one you told me about?"

"Yes—Dr. Sam Sterns." Bruce looked even more exhausted than earlier, but he shook his head. "Don't worry about it now, Peter. He and I had some...disagreements, over how to handle the cases, but I'll find a way to work it out with him." His smile was impossible to figure out. "Part of me thinks it's too bad I couldn't introduce you to him. He's really brilliant; I think you'd like him. But if he knew who you are, what you can do...he would _never_ let you be."

Peter couldn't help but smile back, even if his enthusiasm was lacking. "Sounds like what a scientist should be."

"Yeah...maybe." Bruce snorted quietly and then reached up, cupping Peter's cheek. "Come'ere."

Peter didn't need to be asked twice; he leaned into Bruce's kiss and everything felt a little warmer, a little safer. He was able to forget for a moment that one of his trusted friends was leaving the country within the week, another very slowly leaving the world altogether. For the long seconds it took for their kiss to run out, there was just him and Bruce, and the relief of being reunited after three lonely weeks apart. At least he would always have that much.

"You look really tired," Peter said against the corner of Bruce's mouth. "Really tired. I think you should go to bed."

Bruce smiled against him. "Yeah. But you might have to remind me where it is."

Peter climbed off the sofa and then dragged Bruce up after him. By the time they had reached the bedroom and were undressing, both realized they weren't all that up for anything but sleep, but that suited Peter just fine. He wrapped Bruce up beneath the cool sheets, and was soon nodding off to rhythm of gentle breath against his neck. It was all he needed.

_If Dr. Connors can't help him, I will_, were his last thoughts as he drifted off to sleep. _I'll find a way._


	4. Chapter 4

**66 Weeks of Aftermath**

Chapter 4: The Convergence

* * *

Peter had traveled across the city in several different ways, and so far trailing behind the Iron Man armor was high on his list of favorites.

It was a challenge, sure. The armor wasn't all that wide, so even with a pair of webs attached to his shoulders Peter didn't have much leverage to control his motion with. As they turned and looped through New York's buildings, faster than Peter would ever be able to go on his own, he had to fight to keep his knees tucked up and his eyes on where they were going. But it was just _so_ _cool_. Peter didn't stop grinning the entire time.

Tony took them for a few laps up and down the island before zoning in on their destination. Peter made sure his cargo was still webbed tightly to his chest, and when Tony finally began to slow, he cut himself loose and swung gracefully to the rooftop of SHIELD's Manhattan base.

Tony landed behind him a moment later. "Well?" he asked as The Cube's sentries moved in to greet them. "What'd you think?"

"That was _awesome_," Peter said, but when he tried to take a step his knees wobbled, and he laughed. "Man, though, I thought you might be trying to throw me a few times back there."

"I was," said Tony, and Peter couldn't tell if he was joking. "JARVIS kept complaining about having to adjust for your weight—I was hoping to shut him up."

"Try again on the way back when we're done?"

"You're on, kid."

A group of SHIELD agents was waiting for them. "Mr. Stark, Spider-Man," greeted the agent at the front: a shorter, balding man who was brimming with enthusiasm. "Agent Adsit, Level 6. Welcome to The Cube."

Peter accepted the man's excited handshake while Tony stepped out of the armor and put it in "park" mode. "Spider-Man," he introduced himself, just because it had been a while since he'd had the chance. "Thanks for having us."

Adsit scoffed happily. "It's an honor, really—I'm a huge fan of your work, Spider-Man. Though I was starting to worry you weren't coming."

Peter glanced west and realized the sun had just set. "Yeahhhhh, sorry about that. We got hung up."

"It's my fault," said Tony flippantly. "Wanted it just right before we lugged it over." He rapped on the metal case still webbed to Peter's chest. Peter was silently grateful he didn't say anything about their impromptu joy ride, even if it couldn't have taken them more than fifteen minutes. "Is everything set up for us?"

"Yes, of course! Right this way."

Agent Adsit led them down from the roof, past a helicopter hangar and into the building proper. Inside, The Cube was disappointingly generic after having been aboard the Hellicarrier. Everyone was dressed in plain suits, chatting as they casually traveled the halls with tablets under their arms. Every time a door opened, Peter leaned to catch a glimpse, but nothing extraordinary caught his eye—just a lot of computer desks and conference tables. There wasn't even much in the way of SHIELD logos, making him feel out of place in his brightly colored spandex.

The SHIELD agents didn't seem to mind. In fact, they all seemed overly glad to see him, and he returned a lot of nods and even a few high fives on their way to the lab.

Adsit escorted them to the fourth floor, and as soon as the elevator doors opened Peter felt at home. The lab took up the entire level, and all around scientists in lab coats poured over screens and beakers and strange devices. It _smelled_ like science. He would have liked to visit each station, learning what SHIELD really spent their tech dollars on, and the curious looks from the techs were not unwelcoming. But then he spotted Curt at the other end of the room, and the reminder of why they had come made his hands sweat.

Curt was speaking to a woman in scrubs, but they both turned quickly when realizing their guests had arrived. He looked nervous and even pale, not that Peter could blame him. A smile kept forming and then crumbling off his face. As the two groups gathered, Peter nodded to him in a way he hoped was reassuring. He seemed to appreciate it.

"Gentlemen, I'm sure you know Dr. Helen Cho," Adsit introduced. He seemed to glow a little. "Dr. Cho, this is Spider-Man."

"It's an honor to finally meet you," Peter said as he shook Helen's hand. "Tony's told me a lot about your work. I hope it's okay if I stay to watch...?"

"This wouldn't be happening without you," said Helen with a kind smile. "If it's all right with Curt, it's all right with me." She looked him over. "Though unless that suit of yours can be sterilized, you'll be in the observation room."

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I figured."

Helen turned to Tony, and as the two of them chatted about the upcoming operation, Peter faced Curt. "Dr. Connors. Sorry we're late, but we really did want to get it just right." He patted the case in his arms. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be." His humor faded quickly in favor of sincerity. "Thank you," he said, his voice already hoarse. "For doing this."

Peter rocked happily on his feet. "Not still angry at me for talking you into this?"

"I was never angry, I was just…." Curt stopped when he realized that Helen and Tony had finished and were watching him. "I'm…apprehensive," he admitted. "And excited, and…frankly, terrified."

"We understand," said Helen, touching his back. "But it's going to be all right, Curt. Mr. Stark and I are going to take good care of you." She eyed Tony. "You_ are _still planning on staying for the operation, aren't you?"

"I wouldn't miss a chance to watch you work," answered Tony. "But if we're really going to spend the next six hours in a small room together, it might as well be 'Tony'. Are we ready?"

"Yes, everything's prepared. The rest of the team is waiting for us." Helen gave Curt a gentle push to help get him moving as they all started toward a far door. "You're right in here, Curt," she said. "I'll give you a few minutes and then come and get you when Mr. Stark and I are ready."

"_Tony_," he said again, and as they reached the door he tapped Peter's shoulder. "You know, we _are_ going to need that."

"Oh! Yeah." Peter yanked at the metal case still webbed to him, creating just enough slack to let it slip free. Curt was watching very closely as he passed it off to Tony. "Good luck in there."

Tony and Helen veered off, case in tow, while Adsit and his men returned to their duties; that left Curt and Peter to venture inside. The interior looked like any hospital exam room, with a padded table at the center, a computer station, some chairs, and a gown laid out for Curt to change into. Another door led deeper into the lab.

"You, uh, want me to give you a minute?" Peter said, scratching the back of his neck.

"No, it's…fine." Curt draped his jacket over the table, along with his necktie and shoes, but he didn't go further than that. He winced awkwardly. "Please, stay."

Peter smiled back sympathetically, but when he remembered that Curt couldn't see it, he took a quick—unnecessary—glance around and tugged his mask up. "It's going to be fine," he said, injecting all his honest enthusiasm into his voice. "Tony knows what he's doing—I mean, he had Iron Man implants _in his body_ for a while. They're out now, but still, he knows more about integrating robotics than anyone." He wasn't sure he was helping much, so he changed tactics. "Your wife's here, isn't she? She and Billy?"

"Yes, they're already inside." Curt fidgeted a moment longer and then sat down. "It's going to be quite an adjustment for them. Billy's never seen me with…." He hesitated, and Peter waited patiently for him to finish. "It was before he was born, you know. Just a few weeks ago he asked me about it, about why…I never had anything done for it. I didn't know what to tell him."

"Why not?" Peter was afraid he might be overstepping, but boldness had worked well for him more often than not. "You could have had a prosthetic a long time ago. Why didn't you?"

Curt frowned, but he didn't look upset or angry. It was clear he knew the answer; it just took him a while to get it out. "I didn't want one," he said at last. "I couldn't." He touched the stump of his arm through his shirt, something Peter had never seen him do before. "I felt that if I resorted to a fake, that meant I had really given up on having the real thing back. And I couldn't allow myself to do that." He sighed and let his hand fall. "I was selfish and deluded. You're right—I should have done this a long time ago."

"Hey, no, that's not what I meant." Peter pushed a chair in front of Curt and hopped onto it, squatting as if it were a rooftop so he could still see Curt mostly eye to eye. "I mean, you could have. But maybe it's better that you waited until you were ready to not regret it. You know?" He shook his head, and he wasn't sure of what was coming out of his mouth, but it felt honest. "If you had been working with anything else in that lab, I wouldn't be Spider-Man today. I wouldn't have everything I have now." Curt's eyebrow rose. "Which is, wow, really selfish of me. But hey, you've ended up with a really cushy government job, free run of the lab, the best minds in the world—"

"Peter," said Curt, in that exasperated and amused way that sometimes reminded Peter of his father, "I understand what you're trying to say. Thank you."

There was a knock on the inside door, and Peter tugged his mask back down as Curt invited their guests in. When Martha and Billy entered, all nervous smiles, Peter took that as his cue to back off. He greeted Curt's family gladly and then slipped out, leaving them to a more personal moment. "Really smooth," he muttered to himself as he waited in the hall, but he was pretty sure Curt understood.

Billy emerged a few minutes later. He stared up at Peter with the kind of childish scrutiny that could mean just about anything. Peter had plenty of experience with twelve-year-olds as a superhero, but not so much those whose father's he'd battled on the top of a skyscraper. He offered a wave. "Hey, Billy."

Billy continued to stare up at him. "Hey, Spider-Man."

The silence dragged out awkwardly, so Peter cleared his throat and then crouched down to put them at a more even level. "I don't know if your dad told you," he said, "but he used to be pretty good friends with _my_ dad, a long time ago."

"Yeah." Billy scuffed his shoe on the floor. "He told me."

"Oh, cool." Peter was somewhat at a loss, so he shrugged and offered, "Wanna be friends?"

Billy barely needed time to consider. "Can I see your face?"

Peter glanced up and down the hallway; there were some nurses at the far end, maybe a janitor, but they were in the middle of SHIELD, after all. "If you can keep it a secret," he said, lowering his voice seriously.

Billy nodded, so Peter took one more look around—playing it up maybe more than he needed to—and then tugged his mask up. "Name's Peter," he said. "Don't tell anyone, okay?" He winked.

Finally, Billy grinned. "I won't," he promised, and when Peter held up his fist, he got a bump in return.

When Curt emerged with his wife, he was dressed in the hospital gown, and she was holding his hand tight. With his mask back in place, Peter followed the three Connors to the procedure room where Tony, Helen, and the surgical team were waiting. Connors shared a few tender words with his family, and then he was headed inside, the rest of them taking up their vigil in the observation room.

"Are you sure you want to be watching, Billy?" his mother asked as Billy stood close to the glass. They could see Curt being guided to the operating table, a cart topped with gleaming metal instruments being wheeled closer. "It's going to be..."

"I want to watch," Billy said with determination. "I'm okay."

Martha nodded. Her eyes were already raw from tears, and when she looked to Peter, he could see more ready in the wings. "Thank you for being here," she said quietly. "For everything you've done for him."

"I haven't..." Peter started to say, but then she took his hand and gripped so tight that his knuckles ached.

"Thank you," she said again, the words so full of meaning that Peter shook a little beneath the weight of them. "Thank you."

Peter's throat was tight, so he only nodded, and the three of them settled in for a long night.

* * *

Like Tony had said, the surgery took nearly six hours.

Billy didn't make it all the way through; somewhere around 12:30 in the morning he fell asleep against his mother's shoulder. Peter watched every minute, though not always from the same place. He watched from his chair in the beginning, as Helen cut away the scar tissue from Curt's arm. He watched up against the glass when Tony removed the prosthesis they had worked on for weeks in the lab, fine-tuning every detail. He watched from the ceiling, buzzing with anxious energy when Helen's miracle science began the grafting process, coating their skeletal model with organic membranes. His fingertips tingled with sympathy nerves.

At some point he got a text from Bruce asking about their progress, and he typed out a quick _Still at it,_ before gluing his eyes to the scene again.

And then, finally, they were finished. Curt, who had spent the entire operation conscious and staring into the ceiling, was urged to look. Martha shook her son awake, and together with Peter they stood at the window, speechless as they watched Curt sit up and regard his doctors' work: a functioning, human-looking right arm.

Curt drew the limb in close. His face was blank with shock at first as he curled and stretched his fingers, carefully rotated his wrist and bent his elbow. Their voices didn't carry through the glass, but Peter could see Helen asking him questions, and him hesitating through his responses. Eventually Tony got impatient and reached out to give the back of Curt's palm a hard pinch. He flinched and jerked his hand back; Martha burst into tears.

_It worked_. Peter grew misty-eyed himself as Curt's face was overwhelmed with awe. Martha and Billy hugged each other, and Tony gave a thumbs up. _It really worked._

* * *

"That was _incredible_," Peter said as he and Tony ascended to the roof an hour later. "_Truly_ incredible. I was freaking out there for a while, you know? It looked like you were having some trouble getting the frame to mount. And then that elbow."

"The elbow was fine," said Tony. "Your elbow is why I hired you, remember?"

"Do you think it's gonna stick?" The elevator opened, and they followed Agent Adsit to the access door. "I mean, it's not real skin, but it's kind of close. Dr. Cho said that if there was any trouble with the vitamin supply, the arm could just…die. That won't happen, right?"

Tony shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "Hard to say at this point. No one's ever done anything like this before. But I'm sure Helen will be keeping a close eye on it. If this works, she's gonna blow her whole field wide open."

"I thought she did that already when she fixed you?"

"This put her on the map," said Tony, tapping his chest. "_That_ is going to win her the Nobel. It'll take a few years' development before cost lowers enough for widespread use, but if it works, we'll have an army of cyborgs in no time. Fully functioning and touch-sensitive replacement limbs _without_ the danger of exploding. That's something the world needs."

_Still trying to make up for The Mandarin, isn't he?_ Peter thought. "You're a real humanitarian, Tony," he teased, though he did mean it.

"Yeah," said Tony, "assuming it doesn't rot off."

"We'll take good care of Dr. Connors," Adsit assured as they reached Tony's armor. "This new technology could be a huge benefit to SHIELD, as well. Director Fury couldn't be happier that you brought this to us."

"Oh yeah, Fury's always looking to add a few more mad scientists to his ranks," said Tony as he stepped backwards into his suit. "I owe her one for getting her mixed up with you people."

"Maybe Fury's hoping she'll regrow him an eyeball next," Peter joked, and Tony pointed at him as if to say _nice one_ just as the armor's arm snapped over his.

Adsit didn't look amused, but when he realized that they were really getting ready to leave, he straightened up. "You're welcome back any time," he said cheerfully. "Especially you, Spider-Man. SHIELD is here to support you, whenever you need it."

"Thanks, I'm glad to hear it." Peter shook his hand again, and was somehow reminded of Billy. "Take good care of Dr. Connors for me."

"Yes, sir!"

Tony and Peter moved to the edge of the roof. "I'm starving," Tony declared. "Aren't you starving? What is even open this time of night?"

"You mean, this time of morning?" Peter let his toes wiggle off the edge as he considered. "I know just the place, if you'll give me a lift."

The mask clanged shut. "You asked for it."

Tony took him for another ride, whipping back and forth among the skyscrapers. Despite the hour, Peter was bursting with energy and enjoyed Tony's challenge even more than the first time. After another few passes over Manhattan and one trip across the river and back, Peter jumped free so he could lead Tony to a small Ukrainian restaurant in the East Village. Tony parked the armor out on the sidewalk, and as they stepped inside, Peter waved to the pair of men behind the counter.

"Hey, Bela!" Peter greeted. The restaurant's other patrons turned to gape. "We need some pierogi over here!"

Bela grinned and waved back. "Are you in the mood for cheese or sauerkraut?" he asked. His fellow cook looked between them in astonishment.

"I want everything," Tony said immediately. "Everything you've got." As they took a seat at the counter, he reached across and shook Bela's hand. "Tony Stark."

"Bela Csaby," he introduced back. He didn't seem at all fazed by one of the richest men in the world settling in on a stool in his restaurant. He slapped his friend's shoulder. "Kevin David. He's a little new here."

Kevin stuttered out a greeting, shaking Tony's hand and then Peter's. Seeing his success, a couple of the café's less sober patrons ventured closer to try their luck, and were rewarded with handshakes and selfie opportunities. By the time Tony and Peter got their food, Twitter had gotten the word out, and people were walking in off the street in the hopes of catching a glimpse of two famous heroes eating pierogi.

"Twenty-four hour restaurants are a street hero's best friend," Peter said between bites, mask pulled up only just enough for him to eat. "These pierogi have saved my life at 3:00am when I was running on empty."

"I believe it," said Tony. "You're going to have to show me all your secret late-night spots."

Peter's phone rang, and he answered it while Tony turned to take a picture with a group of women. He was so convinced that it was Bruce, he didn't realize the ringtone was wrong until he had the phone at his ear.

"Peter," said Gwen, quick and serious. "Are you watching this? Have you seen what's happening?"

"Huh?" Peter glanced around the restaurant and then remembered that she was several thousand miles away. "Hey, slow down. What's going on? Are you all right?"

"For now I'm fine, but you need to find a news station _right now_."

"Okay—hold on." Peter smacked Tony on the shoulder and then waved to get Bela's attention. "Hey, Bela! Find us the news—something's going down."

There was a television on the far wall, and Bela changed the channel from late night comedy to local news. With everyone in the restaurant still clucking over their famous guests, it was too hard to hear the anchorman, but then the headline flashed across the bottom of the screen: _ALIENS ATTACK LONDON_.

"Holy shit…." Peter sat rigid on his stool as the chatter around him dwindled and everyone turned their attention to the screen. "Gwen. Tell me you're nowhere near there."

"I'm not," said Gwen; her voice had never sounded further away. "I'm okay, I'm still at school."

By then the other patrons had finally quieted down enough that they could hear the television. "We are getting reports that figures are exiting the craft," the anchorman was saying. "They are _not_ the same alien beings that landed in New York City just eighteen months ago. These are different creatures, new creatures—" He put his hand to his ear. "Okay—we're taking you to live footage from Greenwich. Ladies and gentlemen, this footage is live, and it is real."

The screen changed to a camera view from a helicopter, and everyone in the restaurant gasped at the sight of a huge, black alien craft embedded in in the grounds of the Old Royal Naval College.

"Your friends are going to handle this, right?" said Gwen. "This is what they do?"

Peter watched the people on the screen fleeing across the college grounds, much like his scattering wits. He shook himself and forced his jaw back up. "Yeah," he said, mostly breathless as he clambered off his stool. "Yeah, of course. Just—stay safe, you know, as much as you—I'm sure they've got somewhere you can go. Keep your head down."

"Be careful," she said, and they both hung up.

The restaurant was was quickly becoming its own mini war zone; everyone started shouting, calling their friends and family, some outright panicking. Bela and his cooks tried to keep order and turned the television volume as high as it would go so they could continuing following the broadcast. Peter almost expected an alien laser to blast through the window and had to remind himself that everything they were seeing was happening across the ocean. He grabbed Tony's shoulder. "Tony, we've got to—"

Tony startled beneath his hand, and it wasn't until then that Peter noticed how pale he looked, how wide his eyes were. He rallied himself and pushed back from the counter. "I know, I know," he said. "Let's get to the tower."

By the time they arrived, Bruce and Pepper were waiting. Everyone started talking at once until Pepper managed to draw them into order. "We just finished speaking to Director Fury," she said, staying close to Tony's side as they gathered in front of the television. "He's sending Steve in a Quinjet. It looks like Thor is already there, but they haven't been able to make contact with him."

"But it's not the same aliens as before, right?" Peter asked, tugging his mask off. He glanced to the television and saw red flashing across the screen. "The Chitauri?"

"How did they get here without the Tesseract?" asked Tony. "Why didn't we get the call sooner?"

"We don't know," said Bruce. "No one seems to know anything at this point. We'll just have to figure it out once we get there."

He took Peter's hand and squeezed; Peter squeezed back just as hard. _This is it,_ he thought, his toes clenching against the floor. _Fighting off an alien invasion with the Avengers? This is totally it._

"It'll take us hours to get there," said Tony. "Even if I leave now in the armor, by the time I get there—"

"You don't have to go by yourself," Pepper interrupted quickly. "The rest of the team is on the way."

Bruce nodded along. "There's only the one ship, and their soldiers aren't very mobile. They're being contained."

"But..." Peter glanced between them; he felt as if there was a conversation taking place he wasn't party to. "But if Tony can get there even a little faster, shouldn't he go?" he suggested. "I mean, I'd tag along if I could, but I don't think I can drag behind him across _an ocean_."

Bruce tugged his hand, and Pepper was definitely giving him a _look,_ but Peter was at a loss to interpret either. Tony, meanwhile, was bobbing his head in a nod, and he scraped his wrist across his mouth. "Kid's right," he said. "I gotta go."

"Tony, wait," Pepper said immediately, taking his arm. "Just wait for Steve to get here. You'll have a better chance if you all go in together."

"If Thor is already out there, we—"

"Mr. Stark," JARVIS interrupted. "I think you should be watching this."

Everyone turned back to the television. A view from a helicopter showed the college, pillars blackened and toppled during the battle, civilians crowding together in astonishment...but no aliens. The immense black ship was nowhere in sight no matter how the camera panned, and there was no sign of ongoing fighting. Even the anchorman was struggling to explain, lending no clues as to what had become of the craft or its owners. "They seem to have...vanished," he said helplessly. "No one is quite sure what's happened, but the aliens seem to have disappeared just as abruptly as they appeared. We're going now to our field unit..."

"What just happened?" Peter blurted out. "Are they gone?"

Bruce shook his head in confusion. "Thor must have done something...?"

They all continued to watch, breathless, expecting the broadcast to erupt in new chaos at any moment, but nothing happened. As the news continued to speculate as to the abrupt fate of the alien invaders, Peter looked to Tony.

_He really doesn't look so hot_, Peter realized. _Do they all know something I don't?_

After a torturous wait, Director Fury called, the news coverage shifting to allow for his video window. "All right everyone, calm down," he said immediately, and Peter couldn't help but wonder what state Bruce and Pepper had been in for his last call. "We've got agents on the scene now. They're telling us that the immediate threat has passed; the aliens are gone."

"You're sure that they're gone?" asked Bruce. "They didn't just perform some kind of teleportation; there isn't another ship coming?"

"Right now it doesn't look that way," Fury assured. "We're trying to get answers, but to be honest, I don't have any for you yet. Captain Rogers is still on his way to you. Dr. Banner, I'd like you to accompany him overseas. We need the brains, not the big guy, on this."

It was Peter's turn to deliver a meaningful hand squeeze, and Bruce offered a slight nod of acknowledgement. "I understand," said Bruce. "I'll be ready for him."

"Stark, you're on standby," Fury went on; Tony and Pepper both relaxed. "We're going to have plenty of firepower focused on Great Britain starting now, but if there's a chance of these things showing up anywhere else, you've got the best mobility. I trust you'll have your eyes peeled."

"Yeah, sure," Tony said. He was starting to sound a bit more like himself. "I've got your back. JARVIS is already analyzing their energy signature; if they surface again, we'll pick them up."

"Good, keep me posted. You, too, Dr. Banner." With a nod to them all, he disconnected.

"You were analyzing their energy signature while they were still around, weren't you, JARVIS?" Tony said.

"Of course, Mr. Stark." JARVIS's readouts took the place where Fury's face had been. "The energy given off by the ship itself was not strong enough to compile a complete profile, but there were several spikes given off within the vicinity which strongly resemble readings taken from the Tesseract. None of our satellites were in an optimal position to analyze the event, but there is still usable data coming in."

"Find out if anyone did better and borrow what you can. We need everything, JARVIS."

"Understood, sir."

Peter let out a long breath. The aliens might be gone but he still felt charged, muscles tight as if he could spring into action at any moment. He looked to Bruce and forced himself to laugh to dispel some of the tension. "Well, that...happened. I guess."

Everyone looked at him, clearly still too tense to laugh. Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and tried again. "We don't have any idea yet who these guys are, right? Other than they're not Chitauri? Is there even a picture of one?"

"There doesn't seem to be," said Bruce. He glanced at Tony and Pepper, who had moved close together, and drew Peter gently toward the monitor at the bar. "Just a few blurry shots caught by the helicopter. It happened so fast, people were more interested in getting out than taking pictures, for once."

He called up the small handful that had been recorded, none of which were particularly detailed; Peter could only make out dark bodies and white heads, uniform in appearance like soldiers. It gave him the creeps. As they finished cycling through, he lowered his voice. "Hey, is there something I should know? What's up with Tony?"

Bruce looked like he was trying very hard not to look at the man in question. "Pepper's shared some things with me," he admitted quietly. "We can talk about it later, but basically, she's worried about letting Tony go up against things like this on his own."

"She's worried about losing him, huh?" said Peter, knowing the feeling.

"Not…exactly." Bruce frowned as he put his thoughts into words. "Last time we fought off an alien invasion, it all came down to Tony," he said. "And he knows that a little too well. He gets it in his head sometimes that he needs to take care of everything himself. It's a bigger strain on him than he'll let on."

"Oh." Peter grimaced, mentally kicking himself for having not thought of it sooner. "Yeah, I get that feeling sometimes, too. Sorry—I shouldn't have told him—"

"It's not your fault," Bruce said quickly. "He'll be all right." He offered a smile. "It just means we have to look out for each other."

Peter nodded. He would have said more, but just then an alert popped up on the monitor, advising them to return to live news coverage. "Sir," said JARVIS, "I'm afraid there seems to be a mob approaching the building."

Everyone turned toward the main screen, where the local news had finally found a way to join in on the excitement; they were filming a large group of people—forty or so and growing fast—advancing on Stark Tower. They were agitated and shouting, nothing coming out clearly over the commotion, but _IS NEW YORK NEXT?_ was scrolling across the bottom of the news feed.

"Do they really have to do that?" Pepper said angrily. "They're going to start a panic!"

Peter shook his head, but he already knew what he had to do, and he straightened up. "I've got this," he said as he pulled his mask down. "They're just scared—they want to know you guys are on it."

"What are you going to do?" Tony asked skeptically. "Just calmly ask them to disperse?"

"Hey, these are my people. I'll work it out." Even before Bruce took a breath Peter knew what he was going to say, and he clapped him on the shoulders. "Don't worry; I'll be careful."

Bruce managed to relax, but only barely. "Okay. We'll be watching."

At least the mob was conveniently located. Peter swung down from the Tower's helipad and lowered himself several stories at a time until he was just above the gathering. Some looked like late night workers that had come out of their shops, or early openers, or weary patrons like he and Tony had been not too long ago. Some looked like they had come directly out of their sleep and others might have been homeless. But they were all frightened and angry, yelling things like "What if they come here?" and "Why aren't you protecting us?" Tower security was safely behind the entrance doors, talking into their radios as they gathered backup from the rest of the building. Peter seriously doubted that any civilians, no matter how many, could force their way into Tony Stark's home base, but if things escalated any further someone was going to get hurt. He cast one more line and then swung down, sticking to the thick glass windows over the doorways, just out of reach.

"Hey, hey!" he called. The great thing about the costume was, it sure got people's attention fast. "Everyone, calm down!"

"Spider-Man!" They all crowded closer, which didn't seem to help the nerves of the security guards inside. There were too many people talking and shouting for Peter to make out much more than their blatant alarm and insecurity, so he stuck his heels to the window and leaned back so he could hold his hands up.

"Everyone, please, calm down!" he tried again. "It's all right—there's no reason to panic. Just listen, okay? I know you're scared, but there is no invasion any more, all right? There is nothing here in New York for you to worry about."

"But there was an invasion, right?" said a man near the front, flushed with anger and probably also alcohol. "The aliens came back—they came back to kill us all, right?"

"No, no, no, it's not like that. These weren't _those_ aliens."

"Well, how the hell many are there?" spoke up a woman next to him. "Are there really dozens of different aliens out there that want us dead?"

"They want to exterminate us!" said another. "They want to take over this planet!"

Everyone started pushing and shouting again, and it took several tries for Peter to get their attention back enough for him to be heard. "No one is taking over the planet!" he insisted. "The Avengers are on it. We've got one over there now, and…and it's handled, okay? You were probably too busy, uh, mobbing to see on the news, but the ship is already gone. _The aliens are gone_. You all need to, you know, take a deep breath." He mimed it for them, even if he felt ridiculous doing so. "And calm down, and go back home to your families, because it's already over."

All the shouting was replaced with nervous, discontented murmurs, and the man at the head of them was clearly not ready to back down. "Why should we believe you?" he demanded. "You're just telling us what we want to hear because you think we're idiots! You and the rest of your kind!"

Peter made a face behind his mask. "My kind?"

"Yeah!" added the woman who was quickly becoming his cohort. "Why should we believe you?"

"Because…I'm Spider-Man?" He shrugged. "Seriously, everyone, I'm not trying to trick you. I just want you to, um, disperse. Peacefully."

Someone in the back spoke up. Peter couldn't make out what he said, but then a murmur spread among the people closest, gaining momentum. _I've got a bad feeling about this,_ Peter thought, but before he could figure it out, a scream arose, and people within the mob darted out of the way of a man drawing a handgun.

Peter reacted without thinking: he snagged the weapon with a shot of webbing and yanked it out of the man's hands with ease long before he realized it had been aimed at _him_. With the gun safely affixed to the side of the building he jumped into the middle of the crowd, quickly gagging and then restraining his wild-eyed attacker. "Okay, calm down!" he said again, already regretting having joined the fray. "There's no need for—"

"He could be one of them," someone said nearby, and that time Peter had no problem hearing. "We've all seen what he can do. He's not human."

Peter turned toward the voice, but then someone else behind him said, "Half the Avengers are aliens, aren't they? What if they're making us rely on them so they can take us over themselves?"

"Hey—hold on a minute!" Peter began to sweat as he turned in a circle, but everyone was watching him with distrust, and he couldn't tell which people had spoken. "We're not all aliens!" he insisted. "_I'm_ not an alien. Look!" He yanked part of his suit open. "I've got a belly button and everything!"

A hand latched onto his arm; Peter swatted it off, but then another grabbed him from behind, and then another, reaching for his mask. Fingers snuck under the spandex and Peter jolted, casting everyone away from him so he could jump free. A shot of web helped him swing back to the tower entrance. Even that wasn't safe, however, as the crowd only resumed their hysteric assault on the doors.

Sirens announced the arrival of several police cars, but with the crowd becoming ever more agitated, Peter doubted the emerging officers were prepared handle things without force. He didn't like the idea of Bruce and Tony watching from the tower, either; if they decided he couldn't handle things himself and decided to join in, things could escalate even faster. So he did the only thing he could think to do.

He started webbing people. It didn't take much to incapacitate someone, after all; it was easy to catch two wrists together when people were banging against the Tower doorway, and when he managed to gag some, they immediately stopped what they were doing to try and pull the webbing off. One by one he secured each member of the rowdy mob, keeping a close eye out for anyone who stumbled or was in danger of being trampled. Once everyone realized what was happening several made a run for it, and Peter let them go. That counted as "dispersing" as far as he was concerned, and within minutes, all that remained were two dozen unhappy people slumped in the courtyard, struggling weakly against their sticky bondages.

Peter leapt down and took a quick survey of his work. "I really didn't want to have to do that," he said as he turned in a circle. "But you guys didn't leave me any choice! So just...take five, and cool your heads."

Their replies came in the form of a lot of grunting and some swearing, but at least the incident had passed, and the officers sure looked relieved. Peter breathed a sigh and headed across the street to where the news crew was still stationed. As soon as the reporter noticed him approaching, she started slinging questions at him, but Peter zeroed in only on the camera.

"This is Spider-Man," he said. "I want New York to know that the situation is under control, and that there's no need to panic. We will all get answers very soon, I'm sure, so in the meantime, just...stay calm, and stay in your homes. Everyone's going to be fine."

"Can we consider this an official statement from the Avengers?" the reporter asked, forcing herself back into frame with him. "Are you their spokesperson now? What can you tell us about these new alien invaders? What did they want, and where have they gone?"

"No, I just, uh...you'll get answers soon," Peter said lamely. "Very soon, you can bet on it." The sound of engines caught his attention, and everyone looked up as a Quinjet roared over the city and landed at the tower. "So soon that that might be them now," said Peter. "Listen, just relax, okay? We are on it." With that, he swung back up the tower.

By the time he reached the penthouse, everyone was out on the helipad waiting for him. Steve, Natasha, and Clint were in full combat gear, and even Bruce looked like he had put on his Hulk "uniform" beneath his pants. Peter stomach did a little jump as he approached them all. "Captain," he greeted first, grin hidden beneath his mask. "It's been a while."

Steve nodded, and though his expression was stern, he did seem glad to see him. "Are you ready to go?"

"Ready to 'assemble' you mean?" Peter rocked on his toes, itching for it, but then he heard sirens somewhere in the city below. He thought about the people he had just webbed into submission and the thousands more like them all throughout Manhattan, anxious for news. He shifted his weight. "I am," he said carefully. He looked to Bruce and was a little relieved that understanding was already in Bruce's face. "But I'm thinking...maybe I should stay here for this one."

"What's the matter, kid?" Clint taunted. "You don't have something against aliens, do you?"

"No, I just..." Peter hemmed beneath all the eyes on him. "People here are freaking out. If there's more trouble like we just had downstairs, the police are going to have their hands full, and I might be able to help. You know?"

Steve's face softened with a look of pride that convinced Peter even more that he was making the right call. "I understand," he said. "We'll leave you on standby with Stark."

"The way things look right now, there isn't any combat going on over there anyway," added Natasha. "You'll probably see more action than we will."

"Still, we'd better get over there," said Clint. "We'll get an earful from Fury if we're off schedule."

He and Natasha headed onto the Quinjet. Steve offered Peter a firm handshake and a "good luck" before joining them. Bruce went last, lingering to give Peter an approving but sympathetic smile.

Peter waved him on. "I'll be fine," he assured. "Just, uh, tell Thor I still want to meet him, okay? Seriously."

Bruce chuckled and nodded. "You'll get your chance, I promise," he said. "Be careful out there."

"You, too."

Bruce boarded the Quinjet, and Peter sighed as he watched the it off and turn east. "Man," he muttered. "I'm kind of regretting it already."

The door opened behind him, and Tony and Pepper emerged. Pepper hurried up to him while Tony stepped into his armor. "Peter," she said urgently, "there's trouble in Brooklyn," she said. "Some nut with a bull horn is riling people up. There's looting going on."

"Damn." Peter tugged his mask up so he could give his face a rub. "You'd think it was the end of the world all over again."

"I'll come with you," said Tony. "JARVIS will keep me updated if there are any more outbreaks." The armor whirred when he shrugged. "And at least I can give you a ride."

_Looking out for each other_, Peter thought, and suddenly he felt better about his choice as they moved to the edge of the helipad together. He took a deep breath. "Gonna be a long night," he said, and then they were off.

* * *

"This going to take us the entire bloody afternoon."

Jemma winced sympathetically as she followed Fitz into the southeast corner of The Royal Naval College's famous Painted Hall. "It's not all bad," she said. "At least this is a much calmer field operation than your last one, behind enemy lines."

"It's not that I'm complaining, I'm just stating the facts," said Fitz. "Given the size of the site and how much of it we've managed to clear in the last three hours, unless we get reinforcements it's going to take us at least another _six_ hours to finish." He began marking out the areas they would use to organize and sanitize each piece of debris. "And at the end of those six hours, we still won't have learned a single thing more about what they were or where they came from."

"That's the job," Ward reminded him, not for the first time. "We tag it, we bag it. Any information about who the aliens are, where they came from,m or what they wanted is—"

"Classified," Fitz and Jemma finished together. "We know."

Ward shook his head at them. "Finish setting up, all right? I'm going to check in with Coulson, let him know where we are. I'll be back."

He left, and Jemma allowed herself a moment to relax. The work itself was not taxing—just methodically separating alien technology from rubble, containing and labeling it, nothing difficult about that—but she found her nerves to be in short supply anyway, and listening to Ward and Fitz's banter lacked its usual charm. She ketp her head down, ignoring the weight of her phone in her pocket as she worked. Fitz fiddled with the settings for his scanner as dozens of agents bustled about in their own small squares. He had been right: they were going to be at it all day.

"What do you suppose they intend to do with it all?" Fitz asked as he finished adjusting the scanner to his liking. "The director must have a secret bunker lab back at the Triskelion where all his teacher's pets will be analyzing it, maybe. Or do you think they'll just shoot it back into space where it came from? Into the sun?"

"Who knows?" said Jemma distractedly. She made sure her gloves were securely in place before nudging a suspicious looking piece of metal into a better position to be photographed. "Most of it is just scrap from the ship. Not much to be learned from it, I'm afraid."

When Fitz noticed her snapping the picture, he came over with his scanner. The metal checked out; just a piece of blackened copper piping that had been twisted into a strange shape. Jemma breathed a sigh and tossed it into the area Fitz had marked for normal debris.

He watched her closely, and she did an admirable job of not looking up. "It's a shame, though, isn't it?" he said quietly.

"A shame that we were able to learn so little about them before they disappeared?" Jemma replied, picking her way through more rubble. "Or that they came with hostile intentions in the first place?"

Fitz scratched the back of his neck. "Actually, I was thinking more that...it's a shame we finally had a chance to meet another alien race, and you can't even enjoy it."

Jemma frowned at him. "They were here to undo the universe," she reminded him. "At least, that's what Dr. Selvig says."

"Well, yes, but besides all that." Fitz ran his scanner sullenly over another collection of rocks and wood splinters. "It's what we used to talk about back in school," he said. "All the top secret government conspiracies hiding the truth about little green men from an unsuspecting public. How _we_ could be that conspiracy someday, making first contact and trading secret alien tech." He shook his head sadly. "Who would have thought that _Independence Day_ would get it more right than _Star Trek_."

"Fitz," Jemma said, shoulders falling. "This is all a bit too close to home for you to be making jokes."

"I'm not! Honestly." Fitz began shuffling the remarkable bits into their proper spaces. "I was just looking forward to, you know, pioneering a new field of xenopology together."

Jemma couldn't help but smile. She did remember those days very well, and even some of the excitement she'd been able to indulge in only a few weeks ago in joining Coulson's team. After all, even though the encounters had come with serious consequences, the appearances of Asgardians and Chitauri had answered age old and personally resonant questions about humanity's place in the universe. The idea of studying any alien race's technology, even just bits of scrap metal, should have held her in awe. And yet, she still found herself tightening and retightening her gloves every time she reached for a new piece of the puzzle left behind, fearful of what bizarre infections they may hold. She kept ignoring the weight of the phone in her pocket as it buzzed with her parents trying again and again to call her, wanting answers she didn't know how to say.

"_Exo_pology," she said, and Fitz brightened even as he rose to the bait of an old argument being rekindled.

"Now Simmons," he said with exaggerated patience, "we've been over this before, and—"

Just as Jemma was rallying herself for another round of Latin prefix debate, they were interrupted by a shrill scream from somewhere outside. It was piercing and guttural at the same time, and it sent goose bumps hurtling up and down Jemma's arms. It was _not_ human.

Shouts followed that definitely were, soon joined by a rattle of gunfire, more fiendish screaming, and sounds of debris being flung around. Fitz turned toward the windows, but by then Jemma was already running for the exit. She hopped over piles of garbage, dodged other agents and their equipment, and ignored Fitz behind her as she raced to the nearest doorway. She wasn't even sure why she was running, but something was out there, _something alien was out there_, and she had to see it. She had to know.

She burst out onto the lawn. A large group of SHIELD agents was nearby, encircling something as they shouted orders and leveled weapons. "Don't let it run!" someone was yelling. "Drive it back!"

"Simmons!" Fitz grabbed her elbow, wheezing. "What're you doing?"

"Something's over there," said Jemma breathlessly. "Something's still alive. Come on!" She shook free of him so she could grab his hand instead. "Come _on_, Fitz!"

"Sim—wait—" Fitz struggled to keep up with her as she dragged him toward the circle of agents. "This isn't a good idea! You and aliens haven't mixed all that well—"

"Go!" a familiar voice hollered from within the circle. "Go, go—close the door!"

Simmons reached the gathering, pushing between the shoulders of two agents just in time to see a large metal containment unit slam shut. It clanged for several seconds afterwards as something inside fought against its imprisonment, its unearthly howls muffled. Finally, it went quiet, and only then did the surrounding agents lower their weapons.

Jemma kept her eyes on the tall metal box at the center of their circle long after everyone else started to disband. She felt as if she could barely breathe. Then the agent next to her called for everyone to go back to work, and she realized who it was. "Ward!" She let go of Fitz only to latch onto Ward's arm instead. "Did you see it?" she asked urgently. "What was it?"

Ward holstered his pistol and scraped his arm across his forehead. "I didn't see anything," he lied badly.

"Oh _come on_, you _had _to have seen it!" said Fitz, throwing his hands up. "You were _right here_!"

"It's classified," he insisted, and as more agents gathered to investigate, Jemma could hear everyone passing on the same ridiculously frustrating answers. "You're really better off not knowing, trust me."

Coulson, May, and Skye joined them. If anyone was going to get something out of Ward it would be Skye, so Jemma left her to it while Fitz tried his luck with the surrounding agents. Jemma crept a little closer to the box. A transport truck was already rumbling across the lawn to come whisk it away, and there was nothing to see anyway, but something pulled her forward regardless. A creature from another world was alive and inside that box, from the sound of it angry and possibly afraid. Curiosity filled her with the reckless hope that whatever it was could still be reasoned with, maybe even learned from or delivered safely home before SHIELD shuffled it into one of its narrow hallways buried in the earth.

"Agent Simmons." A man took her elbow. "Stand back, please."

Jemma started, and then again when she realized it was Agent Sitwell tugging her back. The transport vehicle had arrived and was preparing to hoist the containment unit aboard. "A-Agent Sitwell," she chirped, blushing. "Sorry, sir, I was just...hoping for a peek."

"It's really better for you that you don't get one," replied Sitwell, positioning himself between her and the box. "It's dangerous."

"It wasn't one of the alien soldiers, was it?" Jemma asked. She knew she was pushing her luck but couldn't help herself. "I'm not sure that it even sounded sentient, but if The Convergence was active for long enough across enough worlds, well, there's no telling where it came from."

"We'll take care of it, I assure you." He motioned to someone behind her, and Jemma just knew that Coulson was being called over to collect her. "Please go back to your unit."

Someone stopped behind her, and Jemma turned, wincing when she saw it was worse than she'd thought: May was there. She smiled sheepishly and allowed herself to be drawn back to her team.

"It's just us, Ward," Skye was saying. "Technically I'm not even a full agent, so if you can't reveal your secrets to the Level 5's, at least tell _me_."

"It doesn't work that way," Ward retorted. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Okay, enough." Coulson gestured for them to gather around, and they did. "Ward may have seen an alien. So what? I've seen, like, six aliens. They're really not that special." When that failed to satisfy his team, he changed tactics. "You want to see something extraterrestrial? Go look at the rubble some more. That's from outer space, too."

Fitz and Skye both groaned; fortunately, May had a more effective plan for motivation. "The Avengers are due to touch down within the hour," she told them. "They're going to be looking for a status update, which means checking out the site."

Skye immediately perked up. "Does that mean Captain Rogers is coming?"

"Yes, along with Dr. Banner."

Fitz snapped to attention as well. "Dr. Banner will be here?"

"Don't do that to them, May," said Ward. "You know they don't have the clearance to meet The Avengers."

"Where they go will depend on what we've found," said Coulson, having caught on to May's tactic. "And who's found it. So get back to work, hm?" He made a shooing motion. "You don't want to disappoint them, right?"

With a shared sigh, the team split up back to their sections. "You two are really terrible," Skye was saying as she left with Coulson and May. "You know that, right?"

Fitz, meanwhile, was struggling between excitement and cynicism. "Dr. Banner," he repeated. "Here, investigating the site with us. That'd really be something, wouldn't it?"

"Don't get your hopes up," Ward admonished him. "Like I said, you're not nearly high enough clearance-wise to be in the same room with him."

"Well, neither are you!"

The two of them continued to argue over it on the way back inside. Jemma, meanwhile, snuck glances over her shoulder. She thought she heard thrashing inside the containment box as it was lifted into the transport, but she couldn't be sure. She did, however, see Agent Sitwell leaning in close to the ear of the transport's driver, and several of the agents turning away anyone new trying to arrive at the scene. She was very used to SHIELD protocol and paranoia, but something about Sitwell's furtive looks toward their retreating team gave her pause.

She didn't have time to dwell on it, as it was then that Coulson called them back together for an urgent mission in Norway. There was no time to wait for The Avengers after all.

"You'll have your chance to meet them eventually," Coulson assured his team as they returned to The Bus. "I promise."


	5. Chapter 5

**66 Weeks of Aftermath**

Chapter 5: The Fall of SHIELD

* * *

_Thank you for following this fic! This is the last chapter, as the story will continue in a new fic, which will be posted in a few weeks. Finally, back to plotty longfic! I hope you'll stick around for it._

* * *

Peter watched the footage for the sixth time. There wasn't much to see: having been shot through a cell phone, the video jerked wildly back and forth between armed combatants warring on DC's streets. Several had guns, forcing the amateur camera-man to abandon his shot in favor of cover several times and allowing only glimpses of the fight. A few comments suggested that one of them was Captain America, citing what looked like a shield flying through the air, but Peter couldn't be sure. He _was_ sure, however, that the woman was Agent Romanoff. He'd never mistake that head of red hair.

The news said it was bank robbers. SHIELD said it was a European terrorist that had escaped detainment at the Triskelion and met up with unexpected reinforcements. Both agreed that the incident was over, and that there was no cause for concern. Peter didn't really buy it, but two hundred miles away there wasn't much he could do. So he watched the footage again, telling himself that the bad feeling in his stomach was too much caffeine and not an unfocused premonition.

His phone jingled a familiar ring tone in his hand, and Peter quickly answered. "Hey, Bruce." He lifted his head, smirking up at Stark Tower as it overlooked his café table. "Missing me today?"

Bruce chuckled. "Maybe I am," he said. "Usually when you take a day off work, I'm a part of it. I'm not interrupting, am I?"

"Nah, he's not here yet." Peter glanced up and down the street to make sure. Nope, no limousines. "There's still time for you to come down, though, if, you know. You wanted to."

Peter could easily imagine Bruce's sheepish wince. "Maybe next time," Bruce said, and the answer was so expected that Peter couldn't be disappointed. "I just wanted to ask you about tonight. May's still joining us for dinner, isn't she?"

"Yeah, absolutely. But…." Peter frowned in The Cube's direction. "I wasn't able to get in touch with Curt this morning. I assume he and Martha are still planning on meeting us, but he's not answering his phone. I tried catching Agent Adsit at SHIELD, but the guy on the phone wouldn't put me through."

Bruce sighed. "You can't just call SHIELD and ask them to connect you to high ranking personnel."

"Yeah, but he's, like, my boy," Peter insisted. "He gave me an honorary SHIELD pin and everything."

"Peter. Have you been watching yesterday's footage again?"

Peter looked again to the tower. "You a mind reader now?" he asked, trying to make light. "Or do you just have a telescope up there?"

"Steve is fine," Bruce told him with gentle seriousness. "Agent Romanoff is fine. Assuming it was even them, which we don't know that it was."

"It was totally them."

"Even if it was," Bruce continued, "you know how tough they are, and they have all of SHIELD behind them. Pretty much literally. SHIELD says they're fine so what else can we do?"

"I don't know." Peter squirmed in his chair, and when the waitress came over, he smiled at her and gestured that he was still waiting for one more. "I don't know, something just doesn't feel right. Steve isn't much of a phone guy, but he usually answers when I text him. He still hasn't answered from two days ago. It's not like him."

Bruce gave a thoughtful hum. "Well, Tony's back from Seoul," he said. "He and Pepper are on their way up now. Maybe he can use his pull to find us some answers."

"Okay. Good." A black car slowed at the curb, and Peter straightened up. "Text me if anything turns up. Otherwise, I'll see you tonight."

"All right. Try not to worry about it too much, Peter. See you tonight."

Peter hung up just as Harry Osborn climbed out of his town car. He couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious, seeing Harry dressed in a very expensive-looking suit, even though he had tried to dress up a bit himself. He rose to meet his friend and was greeted with a broad grin and a back-thumping hug. Harry's enthusiastic greetings took some getting used to, but he appreciated them.

"Pete! Where the hell is he?" Harry leaned back so he could survey the café's outdoor seating. "You said you were going to drag that old fart out here for me."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I said I would _try_," he corrected Harry. "And I did, really. But he's in the middle of…." Harry shot him a look, so he shrugged. "…Being really shy."

"You mean, he's not quite back from touring his factory in South Korea?" Harry taunted as he dropped into a chair at Peter's table.

"That joke is seriously old by now," Peter retorted as he followed suit. "You know that, right?"

"Whatever, man, it's been _a year_ and you still haven't even shown me a picture." He loosened his tie and stretched his legs out. "Until I see a photo, you are fucking Tony Stark."

"Jeez, okay." Peter pulled his phone back out, but his thumbs hesitated over the screen. It had been almost two years since Bruce's face made the news, and Harry had been out of the country at the time, but part of him still worried over what could happen if he gave in. Even with as strongly as their friendship had been rekindled, a misplaced word or an unexpected revelation could change everything. With a deep breath, he scrolled through the few photos he kept on his phone and settled on one of Bruce that he'd snapped in his apartment, during a finals cram session. Bruce didn't often consent to pictures, but it was a good one, having caught him in a rare grin.

"Here," said Peter, passing the phone to Harry. "This is him."

His stomach was a knot as Harry took a look; it hardened into lead when Harry's eyes sparked with recognition. _Now you've done it_, Peter thought, gulping, as Harry glanced to him with uneasy surprise in his face. _He knows. What if he figures out everything?_ Peter licked his lips, telling himself to laugh, or start explaining, before Harry's mind spiraled too deep into the truth. _He has to realize. If my boyfriend is an Avenger, what does that make me?_

"You were right," Harry said abruptly. His expression transitioned so quickly into one of good humor that Peter wasn't sure for a second if he had hallucinated that brief recognition after all. "He looks _a lot_ older than you. Super hot, though. I can see why you'd be all over that."

Peter flushed, not sure yet if he ought to be relieved. "Oh come on, he's not _that_ old."

"Hey, I'm not knocking it." Harry swiped through a few more photos; luckily, Peter wasn't careless enough to leave anything incriminating on his phone. "Smart, handsome scientist in good with Stark? Who wouldn't sign up for that?" He took the phone in both hands. "Let's get him down here."

"Hey, wait—" Peter all but dove across the small table to grab the phone back. "No, no, no. He already said he couldn't."

"Come on, what's the harm?" Harry tried to steal it out of Peter's hand and wasn't successful. "I want to meet him. We can go to the Mets game—I have my own box, you know. It'll be fun."

Peter shoved the phone into his back pocket. "_You_ want to watch baseball?" he scoffed. "You hate sports."

"Yeah, but it's part of the job." Harry leaned back again, scratching his neck; there was a bandage just visible beneath his collar that Peter hadn't noticed when Harry walked up. "If I let Menken use the box more than I do, he'll start to get ideas."

"What'd you do to your neck?" Peter asked, gesturing.

Harry tensed and quickly lowered his hand. "Nothing," he said, shrugging awkwardly. "It's nothing. Had to remove a mole—all that sun I got on the beaches in France." The lie was utterly transparent, and Peter's heart sank, but Harry didn't give him time to dwell on it. "Seriously, Pete, we should go. It'll be fun if you're there, and your man could use some sun. Look at him."

"Sure, I'll go," said Peter, though he suddenly had the strange feeling that Harry was being a little _too _insistent. "It can just be us."

"No," Harry snapped, and Peter flinched back in surprise. Harry tried to cover the slip with a forced grin but his sudden anxiety showed through it. "No, really, I want us to do this, all of us. You trust me, don't you?" There was desperation beneath his voice Peter had never heard before. "We'll have a good time."

Peter's mind raced. Even out in the open, he felt as if all the air was being sucked out of him. "Harry," he said. "What's this really about?"

Harry grimaced, then tried to rub the expression off. "I just…I'm not…." He pushed his hair back as he struggled to get the rest out. "Peter, just, please," he said, his sincerity heavy in his eyes. "Get him to come with us."

Peter barely had time to process before he was interrupted by Harry's phone going off. Cursing, Harry yanked it out of his jacket pocket and scrolled with his thumb. His already strained face went white. "Shit," he muttered, and he wiped his mouth as he tucked the phone away again. "It's already started."

"_What's_ started?" Peter itched with apprehension, made only worse when he saw Harry's security heading toward them. "Seriously, Harry, what the hell is going on?"

Harry stood and then pulled Peter up with him. "I'm sorry," he said in a rush. "I'm sorry, Pete, but I found out too late. There wasn't anything I could do. Whatever happens, please believe that I didn't have anything to do with this. Okay? None of this was me."

"You're really freaking me out right now," Peter said, glancing around as if he should be expecting a sudden attack. The security guards were close, and raw instinct told him to flee, but Harry was gripping his hands. "Just tell me what's happening!"

"It's Stark they're after." Every word out of Harry's mouth made Peter feel fainter. "They're not targeting Banner—they know they can't kill him anyway—it's just Stark. So please." He squeezed Peter's hands until they ached. "Get your boyfriend away from him."

"Sir," said one of the security guards. "We need to get you out of here."

Harry let go, and Peter staggered back a step as if his grip had been the only thing keeping him up. "Wait," Peter said reflexively. "Who's targeting him? Harry, you have—"

He reached for Harry's arm, but one of the guards stepped between them as the other one started to drag Harry away. "Get off me!" Harry snarled, and he shook free only to turn back toward the car. "I'm coming, God damn it."

By then the rest of the café-goers were staring at them. Peter tried to maneuver around the guard still in front of him, but the man was determined to keep him at bay, and he couldn't decide if resorting to greater force would escalate things too far. "Harry!" he called instead. "Tell me who they are!"

"Just go!" Harry shouted back as he allowed the second guard to lead him to the town car. "You have to hurry!"

The guard opened the door, pushing Harry roughly inside. Only then did his companion finally back off, and Peter stood there for a moment, stunned and unsteady. The sound of the car engine starting up jarred him to life, and with his pulse hammering he pulled his phone out and turned to run toward the tower.

"Bruce!" he said as soon as the call went through. "Bruce, is Tony up there? Is he back?"

"Peter? What's the matter?"

Peter wished he had his webslingers on so he could just catapult himself to the penthouse as fast as possible; he wove through the morning traffic and made a beeline for the tower entrance. "Tony," he said again. "Is he up there yet?"

"I'm here," said Tony. "Literally just got here. What—"

"Tell JARVIS to put the building on lockdown." He dodged a final car and rushed to the doors. "I mean, after I'm in—I'm coming in now. But tell JARVIS to lock down everything."

"What's going on?" Bruce asked as Tony relayed the command to JARVIS in the background. "Peter, are you all right?"

"Yeah—I'm coming up." Peter hurried through the building's security checkpoint, waving to a familiar guard along the way. "I'll explain when I get there." He hung up and hopped into the elevator.

"Mr. Parker," said JARVIS, and Peter jumped. "I've instructed security to allow no more entries to the building, and my external defenses are scanning for any possible threats or anomalies. Could you tell me what I should be looking for?"

Peter slumped back against elevator wall. "I don't know," he said. "Someone's targeting Tony. That's all I know right now."

He stepped out into the penthouse, and almost directly into Bruce. "Something is coming," he said as Tony and Pepper crowded around as well. "I don't know what, but someone is targeting Tony, here in the tower."

"Who?" asked Pepper. "How do you know?"

"Harry told me." Peter scanned the room, half convinced that he'd spot some kind of threat already lying in wait. "He didn't say what, just that 'they' are after Tony, and..." He looked to Bruce and gulped. "He said I should get you away from each other, I think to keep them from triggering Hulk."

Bruce leaned back, but it wasn't the warning that hardened the look he was fixing Peter with. It made Peter's stomach roil. "You told Harry about me?"

"You're still talking to the Osborn kid?" added Tony before Peter could answer.

"No—yes—just _listen_." Peter held his hands up. "He told me because he was trying to protect me. Someone is targeting the tower, and—"

The floor rumbled beneath his feet. It was only a subtle disturbance, one that none of the others even seemed to detect, but it sent goose bumps rippling up Peter's arms. He looked to the windows. Somewhere in the distance sirens were blaring, but that wasn't anything new. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he ought to have been out there already.

"Peter?" Bruce touched his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I'm going to suit up," said Peter, and without waiting for anyone's response, he headed into the stairwell.

Bruce followed only a few steps behind. "Peter," he called as they made their way downstairs. "What _exactly_ did Harry tell you?"

"I'm sorry. But I didn't actually _tell_ him anything about you." He opened the door to Bruce's suite and continued on to the closet where he kept an extra suit. "I showed him a picture. I'm sorry—I shouldn't have—"

"That's not what I'm worried about now." Bruce finally caught up to him and took his elbow. "Calm down and tell me what happened."

Peter stopped, his suit in his hands. He twisted the spandex between his fingers. "I don't know what's going on," he said, meeting Bruce's gaze. "But Harry was really freaked out." He shook his head. "Damn it, I've always known what Oscorp is like, but Harry is supposed to be better than that. What could he possibly be mixed up with?"

"Whatever it is, I suppose we'll find out soon enough." Bruce reached for his uniform. "But you're sure he specified Tony?"

"Yeah, one hundred percent." Peter stripped out of his clothes and started yanking the suit on. "It doesn't make sense—this _has_ to be related to that video of Cap. But Harry definitely said we should separate you and Tony."

"Not a chance." Bruce switched pants, but he left his shirt on. "As soon as we know what's coming, I'm calling the big guy. He'll have a better chance of keeping Tony safe than any of us."

Peter paused while tightening the webslingers around his wrists. As bizarre and tense as their situation was, he couldn't help the swell of pride in his chest. Sometimes it didn't seem that long ago that he'd had to beg Bruce to even speak about the Hulk.

Bruce noticed him staring. "What is it?"

"Dr. Banner, Mr. Parker, there's been an explosion at The Cube," said JARVIS, and Peter's heart skipped. "SHIELD is requesting your assistance."

"We're on our way," said Bruce, and together the hurried back up to the penthouse.

Pepper handed them a pair of earpieces and then wished them luck as they headed out to the helipad, where Tony was suited up and waiting for them. "Something's going down at The Cube," he said. "JARVIS can't reach them through any of the normal lines or channels, but someone from inside the building texted us from a cell phone. Something about a grenade going off."

"A grenade?" Bruce repeated. "Someone in the armory breaking safety protocol?"

"I doubt it, what with what's been going on," said Tony. "Maybe they're trying to draw us out. Whoever's targeting me, they must know what I've packed into this damn Tower, after the last time. Nothing is getting in."

"What if they're already in?" Peter asked. "Is Pepper going to be all right?"

"JARVIS is taking care of her. There's an extra suit that can protect her, or else bring her to us if need be." Tony's expression hardened. "If it's me they're targeting, I'm taking the fight away from her."

"We've got your back, Tony," said Bruce. "Lead the way."

The armor's mask clanged shut, and Tony rocketed off in the direction of The Cube while Bruce removed his shirt. "It's been a while since the big guy saw real action," said Bruce, stepping back. "You'll keep an eye on him for me, won't you?"

Peter didn't hesitate. "Always."

Bruce took a deep breath and began to change. The transformation barely took ten seconds anymore, and Peter could see in the look on Bruce's face exactly when Hulk gained control of their shared body. It was still compelling every time. After a brief stretch and a shake of his head, Hulk held his hand out to Peter and grinned. "Ride?"

Peter grinned back and climbed up Hulk's arm, settling in between his shoulder blades. "Ready!"

Hulk backed up a few more steps and then took off, jumping easily from the penthouse helipad to the roof of the next building. The Cube wasn't far; it only took several perfectly judged leaps to put them across the street. By then Tony was already at the roof door, hacking through the lock.

"JARVIS is detecting gunshots inside," said Tony as he made quick work of the door's defenses. "I'm going in. You two should try the lobby."

Hulk grumbled with complaint, but Peter calmed him with a pat to the head. "You can't fit through that door anyway," he said. "Come on, maybe someone downstairs will know what's happening." As Hulk turned to the edge of the roof, Peter added, "Be careful, Tony."

"You, too," said Tony, and he disappeared inside.

Hulk dropped down to the building entranceway, splintering concrete in the process. Peter winced, but he assumed SHIELD had more important things to worry about than the sidewalk. People up and down the street stopped to stare at them—a few cars even honked—as Peter hopped down from Hulk's shoulders and moved to the door. The entrance was designed to look like any normal office, with an open central room and a receptionist's desk at the far end. Normally a handful of people could be seen milling about inside, but Peter saw no one.

"Wait here a sec," said Peter. He slipped inside as Hulk continued to grumble behind him.

As soon as Peter was through the door, he heard the gunshots JARVIS had detected. They sounded as if they were coming from one of the upper floors. The more immediate concern, though, was a very clear odor of blood coming from the reception area. Senses on high alert, Peter crept across the polished floor of the foyer and peeked around the desk. A woman had been shot point blank in the forehead and her body crammed hastily into hiding.

"Iron Man," he said, hand at his ear. "Find anyone yet?"

He wasn't able to hear the reply; as soon as the words were out, someone started firing on him with an automatic rifle. A quick dive to the other side the desk saved him from a bullet. He webbed a nearby potted plant, thinking it would make a great projectile once he could pinpoint the gunman, but by then Hulk was crashing through the entrance. Peter peeked from cover just in time to see Hulk arm-bar a pair of men in tactical gear into the wall. They slumped immediately into unconsciousness.

"Tony?" Peter said again, and a sound of gunfire through the earpiece was answer enough. He turned to Hulk. "We've got to get up to the lab. Curt might be in trouble!"

"There are armed intruders in the building," Tony finally answered just as Peter and Hulk reached the stairwell. "They're all over the place, and they're dressed like SHIELD agents. Don't trust anyone you run into."

"Have you seen Dr. Connors?" Peter asked as he flung the stairwell door open. "Or Agent Adsit?"

"Not yet, but I'm at a security terminal now. JARVIS is gonna get us eyes on the whole building."

Peter started toward the stairs, but he stopped when he realized Hulk was pushing experimentally at the entrance. He imagined Hulk following him up to the lab, and as much as he trusted him to keep his cool, he didn't like the thought of Hulk barreling to his rescue through all of Curt's equipment.

"Hey, big guy," Peter said, turning back. He tapped his ear. "You still got your earpiece in?"

Hulk nodded quickly, tapping his ear. "Hulk hear," he said, but then his face screwed up. "No leave."

"If you open up the elevator doors, you can probably get down into the basement," said Peter. "If anyone tried to get out, they could be trapped down there and need your help. I need you to check it out, okay?"

Hulk snorted mightily, shaking his head, but then he relented. "Careful," he said as he backed away.

"You, too," Peter replied. "And try not to smash anything but the bad guys!"

Hulk grunted in return. A moment later Peter could hear the elevator doors squealing open, so he moved on, using his webs to swiftly ascend floors. "The whole base is so well contained, the people outside probably have no clue what's going on in here," Peter said as he bypassed the second floor and headed straight to the fourth. "But this could spill out at any moment. Maybe we should warn NYPD?"

"Good idea," said Tony. "If nothing else, they can set up a perimeter. I'll put JARVIS on it."

Peter reached the fourth floor and stood listening at the door for a moment; he could hear shouting and gunshots in the lab beyond. The emergency locks had engaged, so Peter climbed to the next landing and shot a line of web to either side of the door. _What's behind this door, Harry?_ he thought as he took a deep breath and drew the lines overly-taut. _What were you trying to warn me about? I hope Cap is okay, wherever he is._

Peter sling-shotted himself into the door, ripping it off its hinges and sending it crashing into the lab beyond. He winced at the sound of a desk being overturned and glass breaking, but the gunshots that followed were a much larger concern. Peter had enough experience with armed gunmen that he was able to avoid their first barrage easily enough, jumping between the ceiling and the cover of a few upended tables. He counted four men and two women with automatics, another woman wielding a shotgun. They were all dressed as SHIELD agents.

Peter grabbed a metal tray off the floor, and as soon as he had an opening, he whipped it into the nearest of his assailants. The man cried out as his gun was sent flying. Usually it would have provided a decent distraction, but the assailants only focused on Peter more heavily, undaunted. He managed to catch one of the women with a web to the shoulder, knocking her out by yanking her into a table, but it gave the remaining attackers opportunity to flank him. The lab ceiling wasn't tall enough for him to maneuver like he was used to. He dove behind a desk closer to the wall, thinking he might be able to leap through a nearby door and into more defensible territory, but a blast from the shotgun sent buckshot ricocheting off the metal cabinets behind him.

The back of his left arm began to sting. Peter recognized that pain immediately, but he didn't pause—it wouldn't slow him down. Abandoning his plan for escape, he stuck his hands to the floor and kicked the desk as hard as he could.

It paid off; two of his attackers were struck by the flying furniture, and Peter managed to catch another with a glob of webbing to the face. He was turning to those that remained when gunfire from the other side of the room caught him off guard.

_How many are there?_ Peter swung from a ceiling light and dropped behind new cover, but then he realized that the new shooter wasn't aiming for him. The woman with the shotgun went down, clutching her shoulder, while another dropped from a bullet to the head. Peter's stomach turned and he quickly webbed the last man standing, dragging him into a fierce right hook.

The shooting stopped. Peter kept low anyway, scanning the lab for the source of the late-game arrival. He spotted it hunched in an open doorway: a woman in a lab coat, blood on her shirtfront, a pistol shaking in her hands.

Peter hurried over to her. "Hey," he said, peeling the weapon from her unsteady grip. "Hey, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

The woman stared at him with wide, glossy eyes. She looked faint. "I didn't mean to," she said. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to."

"It's okay. You're—"

Peter was interrupted by the sound of a shotgun being racked. He turned and realized too late that one of the first men he'd felled was still conscious and swinging a barrel his way. He grabbed the young scientist, legs coiling in preparation of a jump, but then another lab-coated figure tackled their assailant to the ground. The punch that knocked the man out sounded more like a baseball bat than bare knuckles.

Peter looked to make sure the rest of the gunmen were really down, and by then, Curt had climbed to his feet. They looked at each other and nodded with relief.

"Spider-Man," said Curt, coming closer. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right—are _you _all right?" Peter helped the woman next to him to her feet. He pointed to a streak of blood on Curt's lab coat. "You're hurt."

"It's not mine," Curt said around a grimace. He welcomed the young scientist into his arms, and she sagged against him, shivering and crying. He wrapped her up and tried to shield her from the grisly scene. "What about you?"

"I'm okay. Well, except…." Peter bent his left elbow and grimaced; he could feel the shotgun pellet lodged near his triceps. "I mean, I got shot, but it's nothing."

"You should let me look at it."

"It can wait." Peter moved between their attackers, webbing their hands and feet together. "These guys knew what they were doing," he said, and as he worked, more of Curt's scientists began emerging from different doorways around the lab. Many of them were bloodied or wounded. "Who are they, and how did they get in?"

"They didn't have to 'get in,' they were already here," said Curt. He handed the crying woman off to another scientist and started for the center of the room. "They're all SHIELD agents."

Peter grimaced as he passed the woman that had been killed and continued his work. "So the uniform is all it takes to get in here? I thought security was better than that."

"No, you don't understand." Curt crouched down. "These _are _SHIELD agents."

Peter finished with the rest and then joined Curt next to one of the women—the one that had been brandishing the shot gun. She had long, wavy brown hair and bright red lipstick, contrasting her dark combat gear. Curt applied pressure to the gunshot wound in her shoulder as she hissed and squirmed on the lab floor.

"This is Agent Righetti," said Curt. "She's worked at this base longer than I have."

Peter stared at her, utterly confused. He took a look around the lab, at the men and women huddling together beneath their bloodstained lab coats, at the chaotic spectacle of overturned furniture and shattered computer monitors. "Wait…what?"

"Maybe you'd like to explain yourself?" Curt asked her.

Righetti glared from one to the other. "You don't understand anything," she said, though her voice was shaky with pain.

Peter crouched down next to her, and when Curt moved his hand away, Peter covered her wound with a glob of webbing to stop the bleeding. She winced loudly and her eyes rolled back as if she might faint, but Peter squeezed her hand tight to keep her focused. "What's going on here?" he demanded, a sick feeling clawing up his throat. "Why are SHIELD agents shooting each other?"

Righetti turned her head away, so Curt explained. "Agent Righetti has always been in charge of security on this floor," he said. "But they came in here today and told everyone to gather up in the lab. They wouldn't tell us what was going on or let us leave, and when Oscar tried to call up to Agent Adsit, they just…started shooting." He leaned back, shaking his head. "We got as many of us back behind the security doors as we could, but…."

"You'll understand soon," said Righetti, though she was pale and swiftly losing consciousness. "You'll…."

"Spider-Man," Tony said through the com. "How are you holding up?"

Righetti went limp, so with a shake of his head Peter turned his attention to Tony. "I'm here," he said. "I'm all right. But something really_ wrong_ is going on. These aren't intruders we're fighting, they're SHIELD agents."

"Yeah, seems that way. I'm on level seven—I could use some help."

"Okay. I'm on my way up." Peter webbed Righetti's wrists and ankles together, just to be sure, and looked to Curt. "Take the guns and barricade yourselves in one of the labs. I'm gonna help Iron Man clear out the rest and come back for you, all right?"

"We'll be okay," Curt assured him. "Be careful."

Instead of taking the stairs, Peter pried the elevator doors open and started webbing his way up the shaft. _This is crazy,_ he thought, trying not to remember the last few times he'd traveled this way as he climbed to the seventh floor. _SHIELD itself is the enemy now? What is Fury doing—where is Cap?_ His fingertips tingled with cold and he couldn't help but think of that video footage. _What if SHIELD turned against him and Agent Romanoff, too?_

Peter reached the seventh floor, but he stayed as low as he could as he pried the doors open. He expected gunfire and thruster-blasts, but instead the connected hallway was eerily quiet. Peeking through the opening, he could see more SHIELD agents sprawled around, singes in their body armor indicating Tony had been through them. It looked safe enough, so he crawled through.

There didn't seem to be any immediate Iron Man assistance to handle, so Peter made his way carefully down the hall. The first door on his left was open, and when he peeked inside, he paled at what he found: a conference room, bullet holes in the walls and in the table, half a dozen bodies lying dead close to the far wall. Many of them looked like office workers and janitors, totally unprepared for any kind of combat. Peter hurried on.

He spotted the Iron Man armor in a defensive position just outside a far office. It stepped aside for him, and inside, he found Tony crouched next to Agent Adsit near his desk. The poor man had blood on his face from a head wound, and his right arm was clutched to his chest at an unnatural angle. When he saw Peter enter, his already red eyes welled with tears.

"Spider-Man," he said. "I knew you'd come."

Peter rushed forward and took Tony's place at the man's side. "Hey," he said, a tremble in his chest as he squeezed Adsit's shoulder. "Hey, buddy. Of course I came." He glanced up at Tony, who had turned his attention to the computer. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"I'm okay," said Adsit, even though his arm was clearly broken and his entire face was screwed up with pain. "I'm okay. But the others…." He tried to wipe his face on his sleeve. "Oh my God, they killed everyone. How could they do this?"

"Who?" Peter helped Adsit brace the arm against his chest and began using strands of web to hold it in place. "The other SHIELD agents?"

"I don't know." Adsit shook his head miserably. "I don't know, they said…they said they were HYDRA."

Tony turned sharply toward them. "What?" asked Peter. "Like, the snake with the heads?"

"Like the Nazis," Tony answered for him.

"Whoa, hold on." Peter leaned back on his heels. "We're fighting _Nazis_?"

"It's a long story," said Tony, going back to the computer. "I'll explain later, assuming I know what the hell is going on then." A few keystrokes later and he was swearing. "This isn't the only SHIELD base that's been hit. Something huge is going on at the Triskelion."

Adsit began to squirm, trying to stand up. "It's Captain Rogers," he said urgently. "It must be. Kaminsky said something about him 'getting away' in DC."

"Hey, careful." Peter dragged a chair closer and guided Adsit into it. "What else did he say?"

"I don't know, not much." Adsit rubbed his forehead and grimaced. "I'm sorry, but…Captain Rogers went AWOL two days ago," he said, and Peter's heart stumbled. Even with the mask his reaction must have been obvious, because Adist grabbed his hand. "I'm sorry—I wanted to tell you, all of you, but everyone above level 5 has been on communications lock down ever since the director was killed, and they said—"

"Hold on," Tony interrupted. "Fury was _what_?"

Adsit just kept shaking his head. "I was under orders not to tell you—I'm sorry."

_I don't believe this,_ Peter thought, stunned silent as Tony marched back his armor. _Cap, you have to be okay._ "What else?" he asked when he had managed to wrangle his senses back into order. "Did they say anything about Stark? Like that he was a target?"

Adsit sagged in his chair. "They said they'd retreat after the tower goes down."

"'Goes down'?" Peter repeated. "Goes down how? Do they have a bomb, a missile?"

"I don't know—that's all he said. I swear I don't know."

"JARVIS, get Potts to safety," Tony ordered as he suited up. "And have security evacuate the tower. Everyone goes—we don't know what's coming. Scan for _everything._"

Peter gave Adsit's shoulder one more squeeze and then chased Tony into the hall. "What about DC?" he asked. "If everyone at SHIELD has gone ape-shit, the Triskelion has got to be a war zone. What if Cap is in the middle of that?"

"If they're targeting the tower, I can't leave. Rogers will have to handle it himself." The armor closed Tony in. "The floors above this have been cleared out. I've got to go make sure Pepper and the tower's taken care of, then I'll be back to help you with the rest of this. Think you can manage?"

"Y-Yeah." Peter glanced back into the office. "Yeah, if we've got security access, we can track these assholes on the cameras. Hulk and I can handle it."

Tony headed for the nearest window. "Where'd you leave him, anyway?"

"The basement." Peter winced. "I should probably check in."

"He's not the one you have to worry about." Tony blew out the window with one blast from his repulsor. "I'll be back soon. If you run into trouble, holler. I'll be listening."

As he jetted off, Peter returned to the office. Adist was at the computer, trying to click through different security camera feeds with his good hand. "I've known him for five years," he was muttering under his breath. "We fought off Chitauri together. I don't understand..."

Peter swallowed hard, but he managed to rally himself before making his approach. "Hey, Agent Adsit," he said. "Can we see in the basement?"

"Yes." Adsit nodded as he clicked to the proper camera view. "Yes, here it is."

The facility's lowest level was a parking garage, though at a glance it looked more like a demolition derby; most of the vehicles had hoods dented in the shape of Hulk knuckles, while some were totally overturned. Peter shivered, blaming himself for having left Hulk to his own devices when his field-readiness was still so untested, but then he spotted Hulk himself.

Hulk was calmly loading unconscious agents into the back of a transport vehicle. A few looked like they had been wrapped up pipes ripped from the ceiling, and when one man tried to get away, Hulk knocked him out with a flick of one finger. He seemed to be totally in control.

Peter put his hand to his ear. "Hey, big guy," he said. "Care you hear me?"

Hulk stopped and turned in a circle, searching for him. "Spider-Man?"

"Yeah, it's me. How are you doing? Are you all right?"

Hulk snorted and tapped his ear, as if irritated with himself for having forgotten the earpiece. "Hulk wins," he said. "Hulk smash."

"Good, good." Peter smiled despite himself, but when Adsit switched cameras, looking for a better angle, he noticed new movement. He leaned forward against the back of Adsit's chair. "Hulk," he said, "there's still someone down there with you." Yet another camera finally gave him a good look at six agents scrambling into an elevator.

"Adsit," said Peter, but Adsit was already on it, switching to the elevator camera. Half of the agents were dressed for combat, but the others were only in suits. They leaned in close to each other as they spoke, preventing the microphone from picking up their whispers. Peter thought he might have recognized one from a previous visit, but he couldn't be sure. "Do we know if these are friendlies?"

Adsit rubbed his face again. "No," he said, and the hurt in his voice was heartbreaking. "No, that's Kaminsky." He pointed out one of the men to Peter. "He's the one that broke my arm."

_God damn it._ "Can you stop the elevator?" Peter asked.

"No—not from here." Adsit punched in a few keys. "But they're heading for the hangar. They must have been trying to get ought through the garage when they ran into Hulk and are trying to escape another way."

"I'm on it." Peter gave him a gentle clap on the back and headed for the door. "Stay here, and keep an eye out for me. I'll be back."

Peter ran back down the hall. He heard the elevator pass just as he was getting his fingers between the doors, and he cursed to himself; there was no getting to the hangar up through the elevator floor. He took the stairs instead, using his webs to carry him up as fast as he could. _It's only six_, he told himself as he took a deep breath outside the hangar's security door. _And they're trying to get away—you can pick them off._ He kicked the door open.

He was greeted with a hail of gunfire before he could get through the opening. As he took shelter in the stairwell he could hear the hangar's overhead shutters being opened, metal squealing against metal as the entire level was opened to the morning sky. _They're getting away_, Peter thought desperately, and he stuck his hand out just enough to fire off a few web shots. Nothing stuck. _They've got two covering the door—there aren't any openings._ He considered calling Tony back. _I just told him I'd handle it. I just need to get to them before they go airborne. _

Peter continued to sneak shots with the webbing, and at last he heard the muffled growling that only came with a face shot. It gave him just enough of an opening between bullet barrages to web the second shooter, yanking the gun from his hand. Finally he was able to get into the hangar, knocking the two decisively unconscious, but by then a pair of helicopters had rotors spinning and were starting to take off. Each had a man in the belly with yet more machine guns, forcing Peter to retreat behind a stack of heavy crates.

"What I wouldn't give to be bulletproof," Peter muttered. "How many problems it would solve." He crawled swiftly to the other end of his hasty cover, throwing off the gunmen's aim long enough that he was able to web one in the chest. They were still low enough that he didn't think much of yanking the man straight out of the helicopter, letting gravity do the work of knocking him out.

_I can't take both of them. _"Iron Man, they're trying to escape in helicopters," Peter said as he raced toward the departing choppers. "Even if I was a pilot I couldn't land them both." They were both wobbling ominously in their climb, thrown off by each other's wind displacement, but even so they had cleared the roof by the time Peter was able to swing up to the landing struts.

"JARVIS has eyes on you," said Tony as Peter got a better grip for himself. "Let them get away from the city before you try anything. If they're idiots they might lead us to someone in charge."

"Let's hope so," said Peter, but when he looked up, he found himself staring into the barrel of a handgun.

He only got a glimpse of the man's face, but it was enough for him to recognize the agent that Adsit had pointed out to him. He let go with one hand, swinging himself out of the way just as the gun went off. "Agent Kaminsky!" he shouted, swinging his feet so that he could stick them to the belly of the chopper. "We're supposed to be on the same side!"

"Do it!" Kaminsky called to his pilot. "Just do it, just go!"

A compartment in the side of the chopper opened, and though Peter recognized it for what it was, there was no time to react. With a burst of fire a missile shot from the craft. Before Peter could even begin to worry about Pepper and the tower, the projectile slammed into the second helicopter and exploded.

The blast tossed Peter from the chopper. The heat of it seared him even through the suit, and his head spun as he was dealt a rough landing on The Cube's roof. Still, he scrambled upright as fast as he could. The chopper that had fired the shot was rearing back, banking hard its attempts to recover from the explosion; the other was going down fast, metal howling as it clawed through the side of an office building in its descent. Glass shattered in all directions and the rotors bent and snapped as they continued to spin wildly. _No,_ Peter thought, sick with the realization that it was plummeting toward New York's busy streets. _No, this can't be happening._

He couldn't stop it. Peter knew that, but he tried anyway: he shot globs of webbing into the rotor mast as he swung closer, trying to at least keep the blades from flying loose. He snagged areas of the carriage but the metal was falling apart, panels ripping off as the chopper's weight overpowered its integrity. Maybe he slowed it—he prayed every second was one less bystander caught in its path—but the police barricade still being formed around The Cube's perimeter had trapped cars in in the lanes. Peter saw glimpses of people running, of a public bus helplessly blocked in. He webbed everything he could but it wasn't enough. He saw Iron Man streaking through Times Square but he was too late.

The helicopter crashed into the street with a roar of crunching steel unlike anything Peter had ever heard. It struck the back end of the bus, crushing it like a tin can, before rolling across two lanes of traffic into the side of restaurant. People fled, screaming and swearing, as smoke billowed from the still-burning craft. _This can't be happening_, Peter thought again, hands shaking as he swung down. "Hulk," he said. "If you can hear me, please, I need you outside."

Peter landed amidst the pandemonium, and a moment later Tony joined him. "Jesus," said Tony. "Those sons of bitches shot down their own helicopter?"

Peter looked to the sky, but he could only make out a rough shape of the retreating helicopter through the smoke. He felt hot and sick all over. "We've got to put the fires out before they spread," he said, turning in place in search of a fire hydrant. "If these cars start catching—"

"I'm on it," said Tony, spotting the hydrant first. "Get as many people out of here as you can."

As Tony moved to deal with the wreckage, Peter turned to the civilians. He ripped the driver's side door off a pickup truck and found a woman inside, trapped between her steering wheel and the dented roof. There was blood on her face and she was unconscious, but a quick check showed she was still breathing. Carefully he reached inside and began pushing the roof back to make an opening for her, and by the time he was able to slip her out, a pair of policemen were there to help.

"Spider-Man, what the hell is going on?" one asked as he helped Peter lower the woman to the street. "Is it aliens again?"

"No," Peter said quickly. "No, it's…I don't know what this is, but it's definitely human." He shot some webbing into his palm and then used it to staunch the wound in the woman's head. "Are paramedics on their way?"

"Yeah, but it's not going to be easy getting through this mess. We need to get these people out of here."

Peter took another look around the scene, pale with the chaos of it all. There was smoke everywhere and sirens wailing in all directions. His arm was throbbing, but he forgot about it when he saw Hulk making his way toward him; his broad face was twisted with concern and Peter quickly waved him over.

"Spider-Man," Hulk said hurriedly as the police officers gaped at him. He gingerly touched Peter's shoulder. "Okay? Okay?"

"I'm fine." Peter squeezed Hulk's thumb. "Hulk, I need your help. See the ambulances that are trying to get in?" He pointed to the end of the street where the flashing lights of emergency trucks were starting to gather. "We need them to get to us. Can you _very gently_ move some of these cars out of the way? Help the police get everyone out of their cars and move them just enough to let the ambulance in, okay? Can you do that for me?"

"Help," Hulk said, nodding. "Hulk make path."

Hulk turned and headed for the next car. After peeking in through the windows to make sure that it wasn't occupied, he slipped his hands beneath the frame and dragged it up onto the sidewalk. Peter watched him take care of another the same way before returning to the pair of cops. "I'm going to check out the people on the bus," he told them. "I can stop any bleeding for a while with my webbing, but I'll need you guys to help coordinate with the paramedics. Let them know that the web will dissolve with alcohol, okay?"

"Is he going to be all right?" one asked, jerking his thumb back at Hulk.

"Doesn't he look all right?" Peter retorted, stress making him sharp. "He's here to help—we're all here to help. So let's get these people out of here."

The man looked sheepish, but Peter didn't wait to hear any more from him, instead moving on to the bus.

The entire vehicle looked like a child's toy that had been stepped on. Peter began to sweat all over again as he approached, listening to the crying and moaning of the people trapped inside. Several officers were already at the doors, trying in vain to get them open. They quickly stepped back when Peter approached. Some of them were asking questions, but Peter didn't have any answers to give them. With a deep breath, he shoved his hands into gaps in the door's frame and ripped it free.

The first thing he saw was the bus driver, half collapsed in his seat, blood in his hair. He squirmed weakly as Peter crawled in through the mangled doorway. "Spider-Man," he croaked. "Please, help."

"I've got you." Peter couldn't find the source of the blood right away, so instead of wasting time he eased the driver out of his seat and helped him very carefully into the outstretched arms of the waiting officers. "Easy," he murmured as the handoff was made. "You're safe."

"Help us!" another voice cried, and everyone began to wail and whimper, their hands pawing for him out of the wreckage. Peter couldn't help but shudder as he crawled into the aisle. He braced his shoulders to the ceiling and pushed, but the metal was already so well mangled that it dented only around him. He was going to have to go about it one row at a time.

"Everyone, I need you to calm down!" Peter shouted, stopping at the first seats. An elderly woman was seated in the front row who looked mostly unharmed, but she still latched onto his arm as soon as he was close. He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "I'm going to get you all out of here, I promise, so please, try not to move too much until I get to you. The police are here, too, and they're going to help everyone off the bus."

"Spider-Man, he can't breathe!" someone shouted to his right. "Please, hurry, he's dying—he can't breathe!"

Peter waved one of the officers inside to help the elderly woman and then dropped to all fours, crawling down the aisle toward the voice. The right half of the bus had taken the worst hit, the ceiling meeting the backs of seats in some places, and he could already see that half the passengers on that side were dead. With his heart in his throat he followed the waving hands until he reached a woman trapped in her seat, and next to her, a young boy crushed up against the back of the seat in front of him. He was pinned at the chest and there was blood on his lips.

"He can't breathe," the woman continued to moan, even though she was just as trapped. "Please help him."

"Okay—okay. Try to calm down." Peter again put his shoulder to the metal and pushed; the ceiling squealed in complaint, but it did yield, and the woman spilled out into the isle. Immediately she turned and grabbed the boy's shoulder, so that when Peter managed to open it enough for him, too, she could slide him free. The boy's cough was wet and wheezy—he likely had a punctured lung—but his eyes were wide and alert. "Gently," Peter said, and together he and the woman dragged the boy toward the front of the bus, where another cop was waiting to help.

"Okay," Peter said under his breath. "Who's next?"

He went down the line, pushing the ceiling up and bending chairs down in order to free the trapped passengers. Some had open wounds that he sealed as best he could with his webbing, some needed to be dragged and carried. They pawed at his suit and thanked him through tears. It was dizzying and his heart wouldn't stop pounding. By the time he reached the back of the bus he was afraid he'd pass out at any moment, and most of remaining bodies were not reaching out to him. But then he heard a cough at the rear, and he crawled toward it, discovering the last surviving passenger.

It was a young man with tanned skin and dark hair, no older than Peter himself. His was the second to last seat on the bus and the impact had driven the ceiling into his back, folding him over his knees and trapping his head against the seat in front of him. Peter took one look and his heart sank. The young man's legs were twisted at a lifeless angle and there was dark blood running down them. He looked like a crumpled doll.

"Hey," said Peter. He didn't have much room to maneuver, but he bent his knees and tried to work himself as close to the man as possible. "Hey, what's your name?"

The young man choked on a breath and needed a moment to answer. "Daniel," he said. "Daniel Jatoi." He smiled weakly. "Hey, Spider-Man."

"Oh hey, you know me," Peter said, half on auto-pilot as he prodded carefully at the metal confines. "That makes things easier." He didn't have as much leverage and the aluminum was already too severely warped to be easily moved. "Just hold on for me, okay, Dan? I'm gonna get you out of here, I just don't want to move you too much until I know how I'm gonna do it."

Daniel shivered and coughed, and when Peter pushed carefully at the metal pinning his back, he made a gagging noise. "Wait," he gasped. "Wait."

"Sorry—sorry." Peter found Daniel's hand and squeezed, even though he wasn't sure if he could feel it. "I'll be careful. I just need to—"

"Be honest," Daniel interrupted. He smiled again, though his eyes were red and pained. "Please."

Peter swallowed, looking again to the ceiling, the seats, the smashed back door…and then Daniel's hand still in his, two fingers desperately clutching at him while the others were limp. "I'm sorry," he said, squirming closer. The blood on Daniel's pants was almost black, but he couldn't see where it was coming from. "I'm sorry, I think…I think your back is broken. If I try to move you…."

"It's okay. It doesn't even…really hurt, you know? I can't feel…." He licked blood from his lips. "You should go. Go help someone else."

"No," Peter said immediately. "I'm not going anywhere." He twisted about, leaning back on his shoulders so he could better see Daniel's face. With his feet he pushed at the ceiling. "Where were you going today, huh?" When he shifted his position his hand struck what felt like a backpack half crammed under the seat. "Are you a student? Heading to class?"

"Study session," Daniel croaked. He squeezed his eyes shut as Peter lifted the metal off his back. "Finals...coming up."

"Yeah, I hear you." Peter braced one hand to Daniel's shoulder, trying to keep him as still as possible as he pushed at the crumpled bus seat with the ball of his foot. "I'm a student, too. Been hitting the books all week."

Daniel choked on a laugh. "You're full of it."

"No, seriously." Peter shoved until there was nothing left keeping Daniel pinned. "We might even go to the same school. We could have passed each other on campus and you wouldn't even know."

"Yeah, okay," he said, but he smiled with the idea.

"Spider-Man!" An officer was leaning in through the door. "Are you all right? Is that all of them?"

"Almost!" Peter called back. He craned his neck to try and see. "But I don't think I can get him out that way. I need Hulk!"

"You need...what?"

Daniel's two fingers began scratching at his wrist, and Peter took his hand with both of his. "Hulk—the green guy," Peter told the officer. "I need him to open the back of the bus!"

The officer nodded and backed out once more. Peter turned back to Daniel, readying to offer reassurances, but he found the young man shuddering, fresh blood dribbling down his chin. "Hey," Peter said, but he was afraid to touch or move him too much. He felt as if Daniel's tremors were resonating down into his chest. "Hey, Danny? Stay with me, buddy; you're almost out of this."

Daniel pawed at him, but when he tried to speak, he couldn't get in enough air; he wheezed and gagged against each breath as his chest convulsed with the effort. "Dan, try to stay calm," Peter said, his own hands shaking as he squirmed into a better position. "Calm down, okay? It's almost over, we just have to..."

Watching Daniel struggle was torture enough, but it was worse when he began to stop. With every twitch his attempts to breathe grew weaker, and Peter could only cling to his hand, saying, "No, come on, Danny, don't do this. You're almost out—I'm gonna get you out. Please just..." The bus seemed to crowd in around them, darkening his vision until he imagined himself on a blackened night street, blood under his hands. "No, no, no, please, stay with me, Dan. You can make it. You're gonna make it."

Peter didn't notice at first when the bus shifted beneath them. His vision was blurry and his left arm completely numb by the time the carriage was pried open and sunlight and smoke flowed in. He was still gripping the young man's hand when a paramedic reached past him to check for Daniel's pulse. He hoped to hear an urgent shout, the rattle of stretcher being wheeled into place, but the paramedic only shook his head and then turned to Peter himself. "Spider-Man, are you okay?"

Peter looked to Daniel—his eyes were still open, but he had stopped moving entirely. "I'm..." He swallowed hard and forced himself to open his hands. "I'm okay."

The paramedic gave a yelp of surprise, and Peter tensed all over, but then he realized it was only because Hulk had picked the man up and moved him out of the way. "Spider-Man," said Hulk, offering his hand.

"Hulk..." Peter grabbed hold and allowed Hulk to pull him out of the wreckage. The street was just as chaotic as he had left it, emergency crews moving among the ruined cars while smoke continued to rise from the helicopter's remains. His legs felt weak. When Hulk crouched in front of him, attentive and concerned, he wanted to sink into his broad chest and let it all just disappear. But he took a deep breath, rubbing his left hand to try and get the feeling back into it. "I'm okay," he said, even as his throat closed up. He rubbed at his mask. "I'm fine, I just need a minute."

Hulk grumbled, dissatisfied. He lifted his arms with hands held up and down, one over the other, encircling Peter and shielding him from the noise and the people and the terrible view of the scene. Peter was so grateful he could have cried. "Thanks," he whispered. He took off one glove and reached beneath his mask, wiping his eyes. "I tried. I tried, I just...wasn't fast enough. Damn it..."

"Home," said Hulk. He curled one finger to rub between Peter's shoulders. "Hulk take home."

"No, not yet." Peter resituated his mask and then urged Hulk to put his hands down. "There might still be people who need help, and...and Adsit. Agent Adsit, I have to make sure he's okay. And Curt..." He turned in a circle. "Where's Tony?"

Hulk pointed back toward The Cube. "Inside."

"Okay, good." Peter breathed in and out, rallying himself. "Good. He can handle that part. Let's see if anyone else out here needs our help." He gave Hulk's thumb a squeeze. "Stay close to me, okay?"

"Always," Hulk replied without hesitation. "Promise."

If there weren't so many people around, Peter would have kissed him. "Thank you," he said. He told himself not to look back at the bus as he sought the nearest officer. _Hold it together, Parker. There are other people that need your help now._

* * *

Harry watched the scene burn on from his office. His chest felt scratchy and hot as if the smoke was boiling through his lungs, and he kept one fist hidden in his pocket while the other clenched around a glass of bourbon. Every once in a while he would catch a glimpse of the Hulk among the wreckage, and he found himself leaning forward almost up against the glass. Bruce Banner's better half. It made him dizzy.

"This is not what I was promised," Menken shouted into his phone as he prowled up and down the office. "This is not what I agreed to. What good does SHIELD collapsing do _us_? The tower is still standing—_Stark_ is still standing. What the hell is going on over there?"

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Menken hadn't shut up since Harry had been dragged back, and his temper was wearing thin. He looked to the pair of security guards near the door, and a third that was leaning against the desk with Felicia as they watched the news coverage on her tablet. He only somewhat recognized the glorified bouncers, but the third guard was a younger blond that had been on his personal detail many times, and was especially attentive whenever he was in the building. He would have thought one of Menken's spies would pay more attention when he managed to leave. Regardless, there was only one person in the room Harry trusted, and he could tell she was nervous. She had good instincts, that Felicia.

The guard at the table clicked his tongue a few times. "He's really something, ain't he?"

"He is," Felicia agreed. "I feel sorry for him."

Harry left the window, and when he was close enough Felicia turned the tablet so he could see for himself. At first he only saw Hulk, but then the green giant lowered his arms, revealing his much smaller peer. Harry frowned, a feeling of uneasiness at the back of his mind as he watched the pair of heroes huddling close together. Goose bumps prickled his neck.

"He knocked me out once," said the guard wistfully. "Spider-Man, I mean."

Felicia glanced sideways at him. "What, really? Here?"

"Yeah. Grabbed me with his web, pulled me right into his foot." He mimed being knocked in the chin. "If I'm being honest, that was probably the highlight of my career so far."

"You told me your people had Fury's outnumbered two to one in there," Menken was carrying on a few paces away. "It was never supposed to spill to the outside! Now the whole city is—no, _no_. I already did my part, it's _your_ turn to—"

He stopped, his face turning an almost cartoonish shade of angry red as he glared at the phone. "Son of a bitch," he snarled, and for a moment it looked as if he was about to throw the phone into the wall. He stopped himself and rubbed his eyes.

"What's the matter, Donald?" Harry taunted, refilling his glass from the bottle on his desk. "Backed the wrong horse?"

"_You_." Menken turned on him with a fire in his eyes. "This is _your_ fault. When you left this morning, you warned them somehow, didn't you? Stark and Spider-Man were _not_ supposed to get involved."

Harry stood his ground, each bone in his body a gear winding tight. "If I was going to give them anything," he retorted, "you can bet your ass I would have given them _you_ first."

"This isn't a game, Harry!" Menken grabbed him by lapel of his jacket, and it took a lot of Harry's will power not to punch the bastard off him. "Their plan failed; they're on the run. We were supposed to have their protection and it's gone now. If everything they have on us gets back to the FBI, the CIA, there's nothing we can do. It'll be _over_."

"They don't have anything on _me_," said Harry.

Menken glared back at him and laughed. "Oh, Harry." He let go of Harry's jacket and smoothed it down for him as patronizingly as possible. "You're so naïve."

Harry seethed beneath Menken's attentions. "You locked me out of everything. For _a year_ you've done everything you could to keep me from finding out what you were up to—my name isn't anywhere near this."

"Your name is on the goddamned building," said Menken. "It's your company, your ship. And if it goes down, you go down. We all go down together, you little prick."

Harry snorted as he lifted his glass to his lips. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

Menken turned away, so he didn't see it coming when instead of taking a sip, Harry wound up and smashed the glass into the back of his head. Blood and bourbon trickled down his scalp, and then Harry had him by the back of the neck, bending him over the edge of the desk. Harry's hands were shaking but his resolution solid as he broke the bourbon bottle into a glass shiv and pressed it to Menken's throat. He felt as if he were outside his own body and he couldn't stop.

Felicia was at his side in an instant. She had a mind like a trap and a body like a spring, and she pounced on Menken's flailing right arm, pinning it. The guards from the door were drawing their weapons. Harry didn't think they were sharp enough to shoot him off his prisoner without hesitating, but he knew he'd only have a moment to make is his point. And then something remarkable happened: the blond guard that had been sharing Felicia's tablet drew his gun on his supposed comrades. He even stepped to the side, putting himself in their potential line of fire. Harry had no idea where the sudden loyalty came from, but he wasn't about to complain.

"What the hell are you doing?" Menken demanded, though his voice was frail. "Harry, you—"

"You've been trying to kill me all this time," Harry snapped, poking Menken with the shattered edge of the bottleneck. "I thought you might want to know what it feels like."

"The hell are you talking about?"

"You couldn't do anything right after I came back," Harry went on, one eye on the guards as they made a careful approach. "It would have been too suspicious. I bet you and the rest of those assholes were dancing on your desks when I started showing symptoms, huh? Fucking _skin cancer_?" He ripped the bandage off his neck and slapped it to Menken's cheek; the man gagged and squirmed. "But it took thirty years for this thing to kill my old man; it's not going to do any better with me, and you know it. I know you've been at my doctors, fucking with my treatments. I know you had your HYDRA goons inside SHIELD make Dr. Sterns disappear, the only doctor that might have been able to cure me. I know it was you who hired Nathan Lemon to break into my penthouse to stage an elevator accident. Did you think you could kill me in my own office while Stark Tower blew up and everyone was too panicked to care?" He dug his fingers into the back of Menken's neck hard enough to bruise. "Is that why you dragged me up here, Donald?"

Menken coughed, but when the glass dragged against his skin, he forced himself still again. "You know I wouldn't," he wheezed. "I'm not and idiot, Harry. As much as I'd love to—"

"_Mr._ _Osborne_," Harry growled, and he jerked his wrist, slicing through Menken's ear. As Menken yelped he retreated several steps, pulling Felicia with him. Luckily, the blond followed along, covering them as Menken's men hurried forward.

"You're out of your mind," Menken ranted as he stumbled into the protection of his security, a hand on his bleeding ear. He ripped the bandage off him with a look of disgust. "You're worse than your father! I'm going to have you thrown off the board, I'll—"

"You're not going to do shit," Harry shot back. He flung the bottleneck at Menken's feet and was satisfied when the shattering glass made him flinch. "I still own this company, and _I own you_. If the FBI finds out we're connected with HYDRA, it's _you_ that's going down for it. I'll make sure of that, and the board will back me up."

Menken scoffed. "Like hell they will. Who do you think they answer to?"

"Why don't you go ask them and find out?" Harry folded his arms. "Right now," he said, and when Menken looked ready to fire back, he talked over him. "Right now, Donald; get the hell out of my office."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Menken, waving at his security to keep them close as he started forward. "Not until you—"

"Go on, get outta here," the blond interrupted suddenly. "You heard the man, didn't you?" He fired three shots into the ground, and Menken skittered back while the other guards tensed around their weapons. "Get the fuck outta here already, nobody wants you here."

"You're fired," Menken snapped at him, but when the blond started toward him he immediately retreated. "I told you to _watch_ him, not…not whatever the hell this is!"

"Oh, I watched all right." He continued to march forward until Menken and his men were in full retreat. "I'll have my report on your desk in the morning, eh? Get the fuck out." He fired twice more at Menken's feet and huffed with amusement as the trio finally escaped into the elevator. Only after the doors had closed them in did he holster his weapon and turn.

It was over. Harry breathed in and out and saw spots in front of his eyes. Some bourbon would have done wonders for his nerves, and he regretted shattering it, but he pulled himself together as the guard approached. His heart was still aching with trepidation and he couldn't let his defenses down yet. "What the hell was that?"

"What?" The man scratched the back of his neck. "Did I read that situation wrong?"

"No, you were…." Harry shook his head and then gathered himself up. "That was good work. But who the hell are you?"

"It's Clay, isn't it?" Felicia said, extending her hand.

"Clay it is," the guard replied, shaking it. A smirk tugged at his mouth as he turned to Harry. "You could say I've just been doing the job you pay me for."

Harry shook his hand, and in doing so, something clicked. "It was you that sent me the tip about the elevator," he said. "And the emails about HYDRA. Wasn't it?"

"Sure was. Lemon and I go way back. When he realized I work here, he let slip what he was up to. A favor for a friend, y'know?" Clay took out his gun again, and Harry and Felicia both went tight, but he was just replacing the magazine. "I wasn't about to let an old prick like 'Donald Menken' off you."

"Why?" Harry asked, even though under the circumstances it might have been safer not to question. "He would have paid you a mint if you'd blown my brains out just now."

Clay shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, but it's not really the money I'm here for," he said, and a gleam of seriousness flashed through his eyes. "It's the benefits."

Harry watched as Clay circled the desk and started calling up security footage, tracking Menken in the elevator. "Well," he murmured, "consider your employee benefits package officially upgraded."

"I appreciate that."

Felicia touched Harry's arm; she was still shaky with adrenaline. "Do you really think Menken was going to kill you up here?" she asked.

"If Stark had gone down, yeah." Harry wiped his face and passed a hand through his hair, trying to hide that he wasn't much steadier than her. "You saw what HYDRA was planning to do. What's one more casualty among two million?"

"He was definitely going to kill you," said Clay. "Try to make it look like a suicide, like your conscience couldn't handle what you'd helped HYDRA pull off." He snorted. "Fucking coward."

Harry had suspected as much, but it was still staggering to hear Clay say it, and he found himself taking Felicia's hand. She squeezed him back and asked, "So what do we do now? Do we have enough on him to go to the authorities?"

Harry thought quickly through the files he had unearthed, as well as the anonymous tips he had received via email—and now knew the source of. He glanced at Clay. _If he really does "go way back" with a professional mercenary like Lemon, he's probably more than he seems,_ he thought, watching as Clay sat himself down in the desk chair and resumed watching footage from the helicopter crash. _Not like I can ask him to testify._ "What I have will sink us," he admitted. "Menken was right. If the feds come after us, we lose everything. We have to find a way to handle Menken ourselves."

"Turnabout is fair play," said Clay, eyebrows raised.

Felicia shook her head; Harry wasn't quite as quick to dismiss the idea before coming to a conclusion. "They didn't exactly cover 'how to get away with murder' in boarding school," he said. "But I'll consider it. In the meantime…." His eye caught on Felicia's tablet on the floor. "I've got more important problems."

Harry let go of Felicia and moved back to the window, tugging his cell phone out of his pocket. The scene below was still a chaotic haze, and he felt sick all over again with a pang of guilt. He dialed and wasn't surprised when the other end went to voicemail.

"It's Harry," he said after the tone. "I know you're probably neck deep in all this right now, and I'm sorry, but…call me back, or something, when you get the chance. Please, I just want to know you're okay, Pete. Wherever you are."

* * *

Peter woke up in bed and didn't remember how he had gotten there. It wasn't even a bed he recognized; it was bigger than the twin from his apartment or at Aunt May's, softer than Bruce's mattress in his suite. All the shades were drawn and he'd been stripped out of most of his costume, leaving only his pants. A bandage circled his left arm, which throbbed when he moved it. _Oh, yeah_, he thought as he carefully pushed himself upright. _I got shot._

Peter left the room on bare feet, and once in the hall he realized he was in Tony's private cluster of rooms in the penthouse. He couldn't hear sirens anymore, even if he could still taste smoke on his tongue. His stomach roiled as he followed the sound of a television broadcast into the main room.

All the penthouse's screens were lit up with different news channels. Some of them showed the smoldering remains of the helicopter Peter was too familiar with, while others showed DC, and the crumbled exterior of the Triskelion. There was debris all over the place and the air was thick and black, helicopters sweeping for danger spots and survivors. It was unreal. Peter could barely breathe as he watched the different images cycle through. Then he looked to the bottom, where the news ticker had _CAPTAIN AMERICA STILL MISSING _scrolling across it.

"No," Peter whispered, and then jumped when there was movement to his left. He turned and found Pepper standing next to him, just as startled to see him. Her hair was in her face and her eyes were red.

"Oh my god, Peter," she said, and she drew him into her arms for a fierce hug. "Are you all right? You should still be resting."

"I'm okay," Peter said automatically, even as the strength in her arms stole what little he had left in his knees. He hugged her back, dazed and close to toppling. "What about you?"

Pepper made a quiet sound of admonishment as she leaned back for a look at his face. "For God's sake, don't worry about me," she said. "Didn't May ever tell you that when you get _shot_, it's time to come home?"

Peter glanced to his bandaged arm. "Sorry."

"Oh, Peter." Pepper's pained smile reminded him a lot of Aunt May in that moment. "I'm so sorry—what you must have gone through out there."

Dwelling on it was the last thing Peter wanted to do. "I'm okay," he said again. "But how did I get back here?"

"Hulk brought you," said Pepper, pointing to the sofa where Bruce was fast asleep beneath a sheet. "You were so out of it, I'm not surprised you don't remember. Tony's doctor patched you up. You're sure you're up to being on your feet? Sit down—let me get you some water."

Peter started to say yet again that he was all right, but as soon as Pepper moved away, he felt a tremor pass through him. He sat down on the sofa with Bruce, leaning into him so he could feel the familiar heat of Bruce's body against his back. _Wake up_, he thought, though he didn't have the heart to shake him. _I really need you right now._

Pepper returned and handed him a tall glass of water, which helped his chapped lips and sore throat. "They still don't know what's really going on," she said as he drank. "We know that all the attacks came from agents already within SHIELD, like some kind of mutiny, but why…." She shook her head. "There are soldiers all over The Cube, now. It's pretty much under control over there, so Tony left for DC. I'm still waiting to hear back from him."

"What about the Captain?" Peter asked. "Is he really missing? Was he in DC?"

"I don't know." Pepper wrapped herself in her arms as she faced the television again. "The news is saying he was at the Triskelion, but they don't know where he is now. But I'm sure he's fine," she hastily added. "He's Captain America, after all, and everything is such a mess right now. He's probably finishing things up where there aren't cameras. He'll be fine, Peter."

Pepper was pretty good at faking confidence, and Peter was really eager to believe her. He nodded and then sipped his water as he watched the newscast shift between scenes. As they started to talk about New York again, a photo came up on the screen: a photo of him. Peter's breath caught in his chest at the sight of Hulk pulling the destroyed bus open to reveal Spider-Man clutching the hand of a dead college student. It was a remarkable shot, all things considered, and Peter found himself analyzing the lighting and composition, the great use of Hulk in the foreground, the tasteful positioning that kept Daniel's blood out of the frame….

"My God, they've been showing this photo all afternoon," Pepper said, wiping her eyes. "JARVIS, could you—"

"No, it's fine," Peter said, but his voice was so hoarse he didn't recognize it. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Please, leave it on. I want to keep watching, in case they find out something about Cap."

"Okay, sure." Pepper hesitated a moment and then reached out, smoothing Peter's hair down in a well-meant gesture of comfort. "I talked to your aunt earlier," she said. "She knows you're here with us. Give her a call when you're up to it, okay? She'll want to hear from you that you're all right."

"Yeah. I will." Peter swallowed hard. "Thanks, Pepper."

Pepper stepped back, shifting her weight as if unable to decide whether to leave or stay. "I need to go make some phone calls," she said at last. "I'll be in the next room. Holler if you need anything, okay?"

She left, and Peter put his glass down, focusing entirely on the newscast. They cut to a live broadcast from Times Square with a young reporter gushing dramatically about the wreckage behind him. Everything he said slurred together. All Peter heard was "eleven dead," and "suspects unknown" and "could not be reached for comment." The foreground and background blurred until he almost thought he was back in the street, ash in his throat and blood between his fingers. His ears were ringing and he felt as if his entire body were thrumming with the force of it.

And then an arm snaked around his stomach. He leaned back and found Bruce sitting up behind him, drawing him close. "Shh," Bruce soothed into his temple, and it wasn't until then that Peter realized there were tears in his eyes. "Shh, Peter. It's over now."

Peter let out a shuddering breath as he drew in tighter and closer to Bruce's welcoming arms. "Bruce..." He covered Bruce's hand with his own and squeezed. Finally, the world stopped spinning. He wanted to curl up in Bruce's embrace and sleep for days.

"Dr. Banner," JARVIS said, silencing the audio from the different news stations. "Mr. Parker. I have an incoming transmission from Mr. Stark."

Brace rubbed his eyes; he was still groggy after his time as the Hulk, but he gathered himself quickly. "Put him through, JARVIS."

Tony's call screen popped up in a bottom corner of the television. "Bruce," said Tony, his voice surrounded in chatter. "Peter. You're both up?"

"We're here," said Bruce, and Peter was very grateful he was awake to handle this part. "What's going on over there?"

"I'm in DC," Tony explained. As he spoke, Peter could hear Pepper coming in from the next room. "I found Fury, not quite as dead as the rest of SHIELD thought. Romanoff's here, too. The Triskelion is more or less under control now."

"What about Cap?" Peter asked, leaning forward against Bruce's arm. "Did you find him? Is he all right?"

"He's all right," Tony said, and Peter wilted with relief. "He was banged up pretty good, but they brought him in—he's gonna be okay. We're still working on getting to Barton. Apparently he's been off grid for a while, but Romanoff says she can track him down. Thor, too.

Peter shivered beneath a rise of goose bumps. "You mean...you're getting everyone together?" he said. "All the Avengers?"

"We don't have much of a choice," said Tony, with every word drawing Peter back into focus. "SHIELD is belly up, and Fury's saying that HYDRA is behind it. Most of them are on the run, but if we don't act fast they're gonna burrow in deeper. We need to regroup and hit them back hard."

Bruce swung his legs off the sofa, facing the screen as Pepper joined them. "So this is it, then," he said, Peter wide-eyed and buzzing next to him. "The real deal."

"This is it," said Tony. "Time to see what this team is really made of."

_This team._ Peter's gaze slid from the call screen to the different news stations that were still cycling between the impossible scenes, and he shivered with doubt. _Do I even have the right? _But then Bruce gripped his hand, and he nodded to Peter with firm reassurance. "We'll be ready," he said, and Peter nodded back, letting Bruce's confidence in him give him strength. "Every one of us."


End file.
